Good For You
by FanficwriterGHC
Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. Complete. Separate epilogue pending.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Kind of still at college…**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong>

Late sunlight glints off the high arched windows above them as he turns to look at her. She's slumped against the tan brick, head down as she stares at her blood covered feet. It's not her blood. She used her spare pair of shoes earlier in the day, so these bloody chucks are all she has at the precinct. Her blazer's not fairing much better than her shoes, and a patch of her loose hanging hair is uneven. He has no idea how that happened.

A random part of his mind wonders if she'll cut it all off again. He kind of liked her hair short like that—the pixie, power look. Of course, it's not important right now. None of her appearance is important, but for the face she's hiding behind her curtain of tangled hair.

"Kate," he says softly, taking a step toward her, ignoring the not-so-innocent looks the guard at the door is throwing their way. He figures she doesn't really care anymore.

She doesn't respond until he's directly in front of her, the toes of their shoes touching, bloody red to dirt-stained black. Finally, she lifts her head, and he's not surprised by the tear tracks down her face. The steel in her eyes is what catches him, and he stumbles back a step. His shadow falls over her face as she peers at him, blinking, like his presence is confusing.

"You're—call?"

Call? Oh, he called Alexis. And then he turned around and Kate was gone, came down here, to the street, where she's just Kate, not Beckett. Where she's small and broken and still standing tall despite everything that's happened.

"She says hi," he offers, at a loss for something better. "Told me to get us ice cream."

She doesn't smile, but her eyes soften just a hair. Oh, his daughter is totally magic, even when she's not there. "Ice cream," Kate repeats.

"Yeah. Or food. Have you eaten?" His stomach rumbles. "Have we eaten?"

"Yesterday," she rasps out. Thirsty too. He needs to get nourishment into this woman before she collapses, whether she's emotionally ready to do so or not.

"Come on," he says gently, reaching out a hand. He won't push her, but he's not going to stand back and let her go home alone. Not after all of this. Not after their fights, and horrible words, and needy kisses, and triumphant, broken, bleeding, desperate hugs.

She pauses for the briefest of moments before she takes his hand and lets him guide her down the street. She holds too tight, squeezes too much, bites her lip. He sees the strain even the walk costs her. She wants to stay strong. She wants to stay tall.

But he doesn't care if she's weak, could care less if she crumpled, doesn't give a damn if she's weeping and tired and needing. He is. He needs the too-tight grip of her fingers and the ragged, willful rise and fall of her chest. He needs her alive with him, and whether that's getting black-out drunk at his bar, or weeping together on the floor of her apartment, he doesn't care. He just needs her.

She glances at him as they walk another block, aimless. He doesn't know if she's up for a Starbucks, just to get water and a muffin. No coffee. Her system can't handle it now, not after he had to listen to her dry-heaving in the single bathroom in the basement. She wouldn't let him in—just accepted the small cup of water on her way out with barely a glance in his direction.

He doesn't know how to let go, but she doesn't seem to want him to.

"Cab," she says, her voice hoarse.

He tugs her to the curb and raises his hand. A taxi begins to meander over to them. It's the beautiful woman at his side, he's sure. He never gets this kind of service on his own. He ushers her into the back and settles beside her, smiling lightly as her fingers find his knee, anchoring her to him of their own accord.

"Address?" the cabbie asks, his gruff voice a shock to their exhausted systems.

He glances at Kate, but she's staring out the window, her free hand curled up to her chest, fingers stroking the spot he knows she usually reserves for her mother's ring. He's glad she didn't wear it today; she would have lost it. He's not sure she can bear to lose anything else.

"Buddy?"

He snaps his gaze back to the driver and lets out a small puff of breath, hedging his bets. "Broome and Crosby, please," he says.

The man grunts and turns around, bald spot shining with sunlight as he pulls back onto the street.

"That okay?" Castle asks, too late. He wants her to have the option of saying no. He doesn't, actually, but he owes it to her. She's her own person. She makes her own decisions.

"Hmm?" she mumbles, prying her eyes away from the street to look over at him.

"My place?"

"Sure."

That worries him more than anything—the lack of emotion, of care, for where she goes, how she goes, what happens now.

"Do you want to order in?"

She blinks at him. "Oh, um. Not if—I can make pasta or something."

He gives her a smile and threads his fingers through hers on his knee. "I'll make it."

She nods slowly and leans toward him. He meets her halfway, his shoulder at the ready. The warm weight of her head makes his heart soar. Her soft exhale against the worn cotton of his flannel makes him smile. He releases her hand to wrap his arm around her, and it seems like she cuddles into him without a second thought.

"Do you still have clothes at my place?" he murmurs as they wait through another light. It's the height of rush hour now and he finds the constant stop and start isn't doing anything good for his stomach.

By the way her eyes are closed and the sound of her measured breathing, it's not doing much for hers either. "Pants, maybe," she sighs out.

She took everything back—all the random clothes, extra sweatshirts and heels—to wash and repack two weeks ago. They've barely slept at all since then, and half of it was stolen on the break room couch.

"You can wear my shirt," he tells her, stroking his thumb over her shoulder, dipping into the little tear on her tricep, reaching her smooth skin.

"Not this one, I hope," she offers.

He laughs, startled, and looks down to find her smiling into his shirt, eyes closed, but teeth exposed, gleaming against the grime on her beautiful face. They're so lucky to be here, in this taxi, covered in filth and blood. He's so lucky she's still with him. The bullet missed her by an inch. Hers didn't—straight to the eyes. After that, they'd gotten the Governor easily, strong-armed him and carried him out, his lone enforcer a cold corpse with Kate Beckett's bullet lodged between his eyes.

The man who shot her last summer is dead at her hand. And now Castle has her live and breathing beside him, her fingers toying with his tattered pants.

The car jerks suddenly and she groans as they lurch forward and back.

"Pain?" he asks, shifting to get a better look at her.

"Hit the wall a little hard in that fight," she admits, sitting up so she can meet his eyes. "But I'm good."

"We should have gotten you checked out," he says dejectedly. She wouldn't hear of it. But maybe he should have insisted. What if she's got broken ribs, internal bleeding? What if it's all for naught? What if she dies in the night anyway?

"Hey," her soft voice calls him back. "You got to him before he did any serious damage," she assures him, reaching up to wipe his cheek. Shit, is he crying? He better not be crying.

No, it's just a smudge of something black. He doesn't really want to know what it is. "You sure?"

She nods. "Your hand okay?"

He glances down at his reddened right knuckles with the lone gash Lanie treated. They're sore, but not nearly as bad as the time he punched out Hal Lockwood. He's learned since then.

"They're fine," he says, giving her a lopsided grin. "Bet I'll have a good scar."

She shakes her head and takes his hand in hers, bringing them both to her chest. "So we match."

He feels himself let out a startled breath at the look in her eyes—tender, grief-stricken, triumphant, broken, whole, in love. "I love this scar," he says, his filter off as he strokes his thumb over her shirt.

She ducks her head but brings their hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his injured knuckles. The cab jerks and she startles, dropping his hand as a bang sounds beside them—a car backfire. He can see the smoke puffing out of the exhaust pipe of the rusty truck out her window.

He brings his eyes back to his partner. Her face is taught, lips pressed together in a tight line. Pale—she's sheet white, her chest rising and falling with rapid, uneven breath, beads of sweat already forming at her temple.

"Kate," he says gently.

She shakes her head and he sees the blood leave her bottom lip where she's biting hard enough to leave marks. She takes a few shallow breaths and releases her lip to pant. "I…" the words stick and she makes a desperate sound, somewhere between a sob and a whimper.

"Oh, Kate," he sighs, reaching for her, giving her time to jerk away, if she needs to.

But she lets him—lets him love her, cradle her to his chest, bolster her, support her with the strength in his body and the despair for the woman in his arms. He hangs on as she shakes. He knows it's more than the latent PTSD—knows the torrent is only lapping at the dam.

By the time they reach their stop, he's shaking too. She pulls back and swipes at her eyes. He'd dry her tears, but he has to pay the cabbie and she's already gotten out on her side in a brief break in traffic. He stumbles after her, meeting her at the door. She's in a rush, striding through the lobby, even her flat soles sending ringing steps around the room.

He's right beside her, pushing the button to the elevator with enough force to break it. It's lucky nothing in his building is cheap. She's jittery, won't catch his hand or look at him, and it breaks his heart, not because she's ignoring him, but because she's doing everything she can to stay strong, just for the people in his building.

He hopes, now that it's over—now that she has closure and peace—she can learn to fall down. The doors open and she darts inside, moving into the far corner as he presses for their floor. He turns to watch her as the doors shut, leaving them alone in the elevator together, with nothing but the sound of machinery and the ragged pant of her breath to fill his ears.

"Kate," he murmurs, extending his hands for her as he slowly walks to stand in front of her where she's huddled, fists clenched on the metal bars, head pushed back into the corner.

"I'm fine," she grinds out, her jaw clenched.

"You're not," he asserts, taking her hands in his, fists and all.

"Castle," she groans on a plea.

The elevator stops and he gives her a gentle smile. No pity. He doesn't pity her, and he tries to show it. He just wants to help. She follows him with jerking steps as he backs them down the hall.

His mother's out, and Alexis is at school. He wishes he could have sent her off without the guilt. She knew she took him away from Kate, and he knew that Kate would have killed him if he hadn't gone to move her in, hadn't taken the whole day for just his kid. And God, he misses his kid.

She's safe at Columbia, in her dorm, far enough away to be removed from everything. And he's called, been there whenever she needs him. He knows she doesn't begrudge him it. He just wishes he wasn't so torn. But maybe now he won't be. Maybe now, Kate and Alexis and his mother will be one—no more separation, no more divide. Just their life together as a little family.

He releases her to unlock the door. He flips on the lights, illuminating the whole bottom floor. No shadows. No surprises. Safety. He needs to make her safe, make her feel safe.

She closes the door and stays there, palm against the red painted steel. He waits. He's gotten her home—to his home—and now the ball's in her court.

"I," she begins, staying still for a moment before she turns and straightens up, raising her eyes to his, pushing the trembling back, away, behind her. "You okay?"

It throws him, and he's sure he looks like a gaping fish, if the look on her face is anything to go by. He manages to gather himself enough to nod as she takes the few steps to him, reaching out to take his hands.

"I'm going to be fine," she says softly with steel and determination in her voice, willing him to believe her. Willing herself to believe her too, he figures.

"Never had any doubts," he tells her, squeezing her hands. "Do you want to change while I make dinner?"

She smiles and leans up to press a kiss to his jaw. "Sure."

"Got your body wash," he murmurs as she pulls away.

Finally, he sees a little bit of the spark pop back into her eyes. "When?"

He raises a shoulder. "On the way back from Columbia."

"Trying to entice me to stay here?" she asks, swinging their hands. He thinks she's kind of adorable.

He nods, grinning, can't help himself. "Not that we ended up taking even one shower here, but still. Come to think of it, don't shower without me?"

She laughs lightly and brings his hands up to her chest. "I'll take another one when you shower," she promises. "It'll be more fun if I'm not a mess."

He pouts and she smiles. "Fine."

"Feed me, and we'll talk," she says softly, squeezing his hands once before turning and fleeing to his room. It's remarkable, but he still watches the sway of her hips until she's out of sight, despite the fact that her ass is covered with dirt and the backs of her jeans are ripped.

He stands there for a long time, listening as she putters around his bedroom, turns on the shower. He snaps out of it when he realizes he's close to losing enough time to boil water and have food ready by the time she gets out. He needs to feed her before she doesn't want to eat—if at some point she stops wanting to eat.

He grabs a random box, a fast pot, and some cheese. He'd add chicken too, but any leftovers in there are questionable at best. So he settles for bow-ties and cheese, loses himself in cooking to ignore the memories of the day—the good, the bad, the horrific.

She emerges from his office just as he's pouring the pasta into bowls. She's tossed her hair up in a wet bun and she's swimming in his clothes. They throw the stark lines of her cheekbones into relief, and he decides that her two weeks of leave are to be spent eating, maybe exclusively. Well, eating, and making up for any calories lost in bed. Because there'll be some more of that too, right? He hopes so.

She shouldn't look so good in his big gray tee shirt and a pair of leggings. But she does. Or maybe she just looks like Kate, finally—like the Kate he's been hoping to meet someday—the Kate he wanted to give her the chance to be.

And this Kate looks hungry and a little lost, with red rims under her slightly puffy eyes. So she broke down alone in his shower. He wishes he could have held her through it, but she seems much better for it now. It pushes the hurt from his chest, because the look she's giving him says so much, filled with gratitude for the space and love for being there to come back to.

So he smiles softly and brings their bowls to the table. The stools are probably a little stiff for them both tonight. He's not nursing bruised ribs, but he's sore, and old, and jeez sitting down is painful.

She ducks her head, hiding a smile as she takes a forkful of pasta. "Yes, laugh at me, the man that made you dinner."

"You sound like an old man," she giggles, and the sound warms his heart even as it wounds his ego.

"So what does that make you?" he fires back around his own mouthful. They're both too hungry to care about how they look. They've seen much worse from each other.

She laughs and reaches out to pat his arm. "A little crazy."

"Crazy because you're in love with an old man?"

They lock eyes. He hadn't really meant to let that slip out so suddenly. They've been tiptoeing around it—agreed to get through the case before they fell into this. They weren't so successful. He's got nail marks to prove it, and there's a hickey on her thigh that's anything but a battle-bruise. But they haven't done the emotional stuff yet. And he didn't mean to start them on it now.

"Yeah," she offers after a moment, reaching out to wipe cheese from the corner of his mouth. He kisses it off of her finger, surprised but delighted by her reaction. "Yeah, I'm crazy all right."

"If you say 'crazy for you,' I might lose respect for you," he offers. She laughs, startled, and he grins at her.

Her face settles from caught to tender, and he mentally pats himself on the back. His Beckett-meter's been off for the last two weeks, but it's good to know that he still knows how to get her—that he still understands this new incarnation of Kate, who's smiling like he's never seen her smile before.

"I think you might be crazier," she muses as she takes another bite, leaving her free hand on his forearm.

"Crazier for you than you are for me?"

She shakes her head with a small smile. "Crazier for loving me than I am for loving you."

Oh. Well that's just not true at all, but he can't find the words to tell her, so he leans over and finds her lips instead. She tastes like cheese and stale coffee, and it's not great, but her lips are soft beneath his, and he hardly cares. Her hands come to cradle his cheeks and he steadies himself, half out of his seat as she caresses the skin beneath his eye, her tongue soft along his bottom lip.

They break apart after a moment and he stays there, his forehead pressed to hers. "Not crazy at all," he breaths.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment and he feels her exhale across his lips as her fingers stroke his face. "If you say so," she decides, opening her eyes to meet his. The storm is fading there behind her irises, and he smiles, nodding against her forehead.

"We should eat more."

She smiles and lets him go. Her leg finds his beneath the table, her socked foot—his socks—wrapping around his calf. They share glances as they finish in silence. He can't quite figure out what they mean, doesn't know if they're 'come hither' looks, or 'I'm so glad it's you,' looks, or 'my God I'm exhausted, and this man has a king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress,' looks.

Honestly, he'll take all of the above, long as she's there with him.

She takes their bowls when they finish, squeezing his shoulder as she passes with that look that says, "Stay put, Castle." He watches her, glad for the calm he can see in her body, the ease of her movements. He gets a little caught up in how well she knows his kitchen, and how insanely good she looks in his kitchen, in his clothes, in his socks.

"You're staring," she says as she turns around, sliding the last dish into the drainer.

He nods, unashamed, smiling as she walks over to him. She reaches out and cards her fingers through his messy hair, looking down at him, eyes full with it, with everything. He curls his palm around her hip, stroking his thumb against the soft cotton of the shirt that hangs off her frame.

She's so slim, so fragile really, but oh-so badass too. Her lithe figure only seems an asset. She's fast, and fierce, and he honestly feels safe around her when they're in the line of fire. And yeah, that power dynamic is abnormal, but he hopes he can make her feel safe here, at home, when there's no badge, or gun, or fist-fight to contend with—when it's just them.

"We need to get you cleaned up," she says around a yawn.

He chuckles and stands up, towering over her, so short without her power heels. "Why don't you lie down and I'll join you?" he suggests as he takes her hands and walks backward toward his office. She shakes her head and yawns again, eyes wide and false alert. "I'll wake you," he tacks on.

Nightmares. He's sure she'll have nightmares. He'll probably have them too. And he knows, in the few nights they've really had together, that she doesn't like to fall asleep alone—that now that she doesn't have to, she hates to. The bed is too big, she told him once. She can't feel the edges, can't feel the boundaries between her and it, all of it. Pain and sadness and grief don't end, just like the expanse of sheets.

She closes her eyes as he tugs her into the bedroom. He pulls her into his chest, wrapping her up as she presses her forehead to his neck. "I'll be quick," he promises. "But I think you should lie down." She's trembling with the release of adrenaline and exhaustion.

She shakes her head and walks forward, bodily pushing him into the bathroom. "I'll sit," she mumbles, disengaging from him to plop down on the toilet seat.

He watches her for a moment and she raises her head to glare at him, challenging him to argue. He sighs and reaches for his toothbrush, brushing his mouth vigorously before he spits and sheds his clothes. He'll dislodge her to use the toilet once he's done showering. Or he'll speed up the process and be five. It doesn't look like she'll make it up and down twice.

She eyes him as he strips and turns on the water. He can't help but laugh at the rapid flutter of her eyelashes even as she tries to look at him with something kind of like allure.

"Tomorrow," he says when she meets his eyes. She laughs lightly and waves him into the stall.

It's fast. And hot. But he doesn't really care. He scrubs his hair clean and washes off the grime, grimacing at the sting over the shallow cuts and scrapes and the burn along his knuckles. Maybe they'll take a bath tomorrow.

He turns away from the door and quietly relieves himself, smiling at the absurdity of peeing in his shower just so Kate doesn't have to stand up and sit back down, since she refuses to even lie down without him. He's rather sure she won't find his gesture romantic. He hopes she's too tired to think about his bodily needs. He almost is.

He turns off the water and steps out, grabbing his towel. She's almost asleep as it is, her head cradled in her hands, bent over her knees. He dries off quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist as he pads over to her.

"Kate," he murmurs, running his hand over her hair.

She jerks up, bumping his hand. "Hmm?"

"Come on," he says, extending his hands for her.

She takes them and together they haul her up. He starts for the door but she shakes her head and pulls him over to the counter, grabbing his tooth brush. "If you don't smell, I don't smell," she mumbles as she squeezes a blob of his toothpaste onto it and shoves the brush into her mouth, brushing erratically.

He shakes his head and runs a comb through his hair—a pointless gesture, but something to fill the time. She spits and rinses her mouth once, wiping her wet hand on his towel with an exhausted smile.

He leans down and presses his lips to her forehead before ushering her back into his bedroom. He moves to grab clothes, but she snags his wrist and shakes her head, reaching down to pull her top off.

"Kate," he sighs. She's not up for sex, and he really isn't either.

"Not that," she huffs as she peels off her leggings and socks, clutching his arm to stay upright. "Just," she trails off as she stands up, beautiful and bare and battered. "Just—"

"Us," he provides with a smile, tugging his towel off as he steps in to embrace her, running his rough fingers over her back.

She sighs and shivers into him, her lips pressed to his throat. "Just us," she repeats on a whispered breath.

Yes, it's just them now. Just the two of them, with no secrets, and no lies, and no case between them anymore. He grins tiredly, elatedly, against her hair before he slowly maneuvers them back and onto the bed, following her as she scoots toward the middle.

He leaves an inch's distance between them, letting her lead. She blinks sluggishly and rolls over. For a split second, he's irrationally devastated, until her hand reaches back, blindly searching for his arm. He chuckles, half relief, half adoration as he snuggles up to her, wrapping his body around hers and threading his leg between her knees.

She tugs his hand between her breasts, rests it against her scar. "Thank you," she breathes.

"Oh, Kate," he lets out, curling around her to press his lips to her temple. "Always."

The corner of her mouth twitches up and then goes slack as she passes out. It takes him longer. He's exhausted, depleted, but the images, the memories of those bullets, of her face, of the way she swayed when she shot her shooter—they swirl behind his eyes.

But she's here. She's whole. She's breathing and beating beneath his hand, and she's soft against his chest, and she's real. She's free. They're free. This is the start of their life together—their real life, not the life they've lived for a month, stealing broken kisses and crushing hugs between breaks and after fights. Not this phantom life full of needy sex and dark, confession filled nights.

No, this is the start of their forever, and he forces himself to look forward—to look toward cardboard boxes, and weddings, and babies, and porch chairs. He falls asleep with visions of Kate Beckett in white lace, laughing as she scampers down the beach in the moonlight, grinning, daring, radiant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Just borrowing them for my own amusement.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong>

He startles awake, mind hazy, chest heaving as he tries to get his bearings, tries to wipe the image of Kate bleeding out beneath his hands again from his mind. It felt so real. He felt her heart beating blood out of her body as he pleaded with her to stay with him, to stay, to live. He feels tears on his cheeks and reaches up to wipe them away with the hand that's not clutched against her chest in a death grip.

Kate. Kate's alive, there, in his bed, jerking his arm. Oh, that's what woke him. She's—she's having a nightmare.

"Kate," he says, scooting up to her again. They've separated in the night, he onto his stomach and she onto her back, his arm pulled across her bare chest.

They've kicked the blankets down and the sheet barely covers their legs. She's twitching, his arm clenched in her hands. He curls around her, sliding his free arm beneath her pillow so he can press his lips to her cheek.

"Kate," he repeats, louder.

She jerks awake, eyes wide and panicked. She lets out a startled gasp and tries to move away, but he keeps her there, holding her side as he murmurs, "It's okay, it's me," against the crown of her head.

She swallows and turns her head to find his eyes in the semi-darkness, light from the hall and windows casting dancing golden shadows over the room.

"I," she rasps, licking her lips. "Sorry," she mumbles, letting her grip go soft over his arm.

He shakes his head against hers and presses his lips to her skin, using his newly-freed hand to stroke her side, over the surgery scar that has haunted both of their dreams. She twitches and then melts against him, turning to bury her face into his neck as she raises a hand to clench onto his shoulder.

"Just a dream," he whispers as she twines their legs back together. The statement's as much for him as it is for her. "We're here. It's over. No more."

He feels her shudder beneath his hands, her mouth open against his throat as she sucks in a deep breath. "No more," she mouths against him.

She relaxes after a few minutes and he smiles as her hand begins to slide up and down his arm as she pulls back to meet his eyes.

"It's over," she says, disbelief and joy and grief awash over her face, behind her eyes.

"Yeah," he agrees, reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "Overwhelming?"

She nods into his palm. "I can't...I think I finally know what it's like to be in your head."

He laughs, surprised, and his heart swells at the tired smile that settles over her features. "Oh?"

"I have too many words," she explains, bringing her hand to his face, repeating his gesture as she brushes the last vestiges of tears from his skin. "You were crying."

He blinks his assent. "Your nightmare woke me from mine," he tells her honestly. They're going to do this right, absurdly right, disgustingly right. He wants to tell her how many cheerios he eats for breakfast, and about the napkin that fell off the table at his business lunch—every tiny, insignificant thing he can ever think of.

Her eyes widen at his remark and she sighs, stroking her fingers against the rough stubble on his cheeks. It's been a few days since he's even thought about shaving.

"You're welcome?" she says, and he can't help himself, leaning forward to brush his lips over hers.

So maybe he won't tell her everything. It would be a little crazy. But the important things? The things that make her smile beneath his lips, and make her face soften as they pull apart, loving him—those things, he'll tell her.

"Worked out well for both of us, I think," he decides as they stare at each other.

She shivers and then laughs, glancing down toward the comforter piled at the bottom of the bed. "Did I kick you?"

He chuckles, disengaging to reach down and pull the blankets back up over them, enveloping them in soft cotton and heavy down. "I don't think so, just the covers."

"Good."

He smiles and brushes the hair that's fallen out of her bun back behind her ear. "You're beautiful," he whispers.

She blushes, eyelashes covering her eyes as she darts her gaze to his chest. "I'm puffy."

"You're alive," he insists, cupping her cheek. "I don't care how puffy your eyes are. Hell, Kate, balloon up by four pant-sizes. I won't care."

She laughs and brings her eyes back to his. "You've gone down a few," she remarks, running her hand down his chest to rest on his stomach.

It's been a hard summer on them both, between the fallout from his murder board and the resurgence of the case. She's all muscle and bone, and he's back to where he was three years ago. The training he did with Espo probably hurried it along too. Boxing, weight training, running—he wanted to be fit, able, strong, to help her. And now, with it all behind them, she certainly doesn't seem to mind as she scrapes her nails across his four-pack.

"Lots of running around," he says as she swirls around his belly button. He sucks in a breath and she laughs against his hand at her cheek, grinning at him.

"And some other activities," she teases.

"Some," he agrees. Not nearly enough—he hasn't had nearly enough of her, he won't ever have enough.

She smiles and leans toward him, catching him in another kiss as she snuggles closer, aligning every plane of her body against his, soft skin on skin. He slides his hand to cup the back of her head, threading into her hair as she parts her lips. He charges inside, his tongue finding the ridge along the top of her mouth. She moans—that amazing sound that always brings him to his knees—and he tugs her impossibly closer.

The shift is subtle, when they go from kissing to caressing to rocking into each other, foreheads pressed together, his hips settled in the cradle of hers. Their bodies connect, but not so much as their eyes, and the raw feeling there stuns them as they pant against each other's mouths. She surges up to find his lips, her hands settled on his neck and jaw. Her mouth is needy, and as he pulls away to catch his breath, he sees the tears leaking down her cheeks.

He bends his face to kiss them away as she shuts her eyes. "Let go, Kate," he urges, his lips against her cheekbone.

"I," she manages, her voice a strangled plea.

Her fingers come to swipe at his cheek. He's crying too, so lucky to have her there with him, moving with him, her body his, his mouth hers, their hearts beating a spastic tandem rhythm together. She gives a startled gasp against his lips and finds his eyes, hers full with love and release, before they fall shut. Her fingers tangle with his as he buries his head in her neck, his lips open against her skin as they breathe together in the silence of early morning.

They fall still after a moment, chests heaving as she holds him above her. He's so exhausted, so limp and ragged, but he holds himself up, refusing to crush her. But Kate Beckett doesn't do halfway. She tugs on him until he falls, his weight pressing her into the mattress even as he pulls his head back to pepper her jaw with his lips.

"I love you," he mumbles against her cheek, lifting up so he can see her face, tear streaked and glowing.

She smiles, her watery eyes crinkling with it as she runs her hand through his hair, taming the damage she's done. "I love you too," she whispers.

He can't help the grin that settles over his face, to hear her say she loves him now—now that everything's over and done and behind them. Now that they're safe together. Now that forever is no longer a hazy promise, a stolen secret in the dead of night when they were too exhausted to even take off their clothes.

No, their forever stretches out before them, and so he kisses her, slow and gentle and full of the promises his throat is too full to speak.

"What time is it?" she wonders as they pull apart.

He glances toward her bedside and lets out a startled laugh. "It's 3am," he says bringing his eyes back to meet her laughing ones.

"We went to bed at what, seven?"

He nods and slowly moves off of her, delighting in her whine of protest as he settles beside her. He loves that she needs him as much as he needs her—that their sexual relationship is as even as all their others, as connected and as mutual. And now that they're not running themselves ragged, chasing after dragons and killing assassins, he might just keep her in his bed, possibly forever.

"I'm not tired," she says as they lay side by side, her fingers trailing along his open palm.

"You're just all high on sex."

She giggles and nudges him with her bare shoulder. "Shouldn't you be catatonic, oh cave man?"

He rumbles out a laugh, snagging her hand to bring her fingers to his lips. "Something about already having eight hours of sleep has left me pleasantly sated, but far from catatonic."

She sighs contentedly and turns her head to look at him. "We should sleep more."

He shrugs. He's happy to lay with her all night, talking, not talking, whatever she needs. He's rattled—can't help but look at her, reassuring himself that she's there, even though she's just come apart beneath him, and her hand is warm and soft in his. Helping her, catering to her needs, making her comfortable is all he wants. He just needs to take care of her to soothe his own soul while, he hopes, soothing hers.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he suggests, when, fifteen minutes later, it's clear that they're not going back to sleep.

She lifts a shoulder, rubbing against his with a small squeak. "Bathroom first," she laughs, sitting up with a groan.

"You okay?" he asks immediately, sitting up beside her, running a gentle hand down her back. He's too concerned to fully appreciate the beauty of his…woman, bare in his bed, with soft streetlight glowing over her skin.

She turns her head and kisses his shoulder, resting there for a moment before she shifts to kneel in front of him, hands on his shoulders. "I'm fine," she promises, squeezing gently. "Physically, I'm just fine," she amends when he raises an eyebrow. "Jeez, gimme some credit."

It's said without malice and he smiles, bending to press his lips to her scar. He feels the hitch in her breath as he pulls away, rising up so they're face to face, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist.

"I know you're not breakable," he murmurs, finding her eyes as they widen.

She's silent for a moment and he feels her fingers twitching on his shoulders. "Good."

"But I get to worry."

"Rick," she begins, but he leans forward and swallows her words, only pulling back once he has her breathless.

"Now that there's no gunmen and governors and conspiracies, I get to worry about you—whether you eat, whether you're tired, whether you've got bruised ribs."

She narrows her eyes but doesn't protest and he smiles, stroking his thumbs over her sides. "I don't like being coddled," she tells him, matter-of-fact.

"How about being cared for?"

She stills and searches his eyes. It hurts, somewhere inside, that she doesn't already realize he cares for her, cares about her, takes care of her. Then again, maybe she does, because she's smiling and running her hand up into his hair to scrape gently against his scalp. She put him to sleep like that three weeks ago, when he was the one who couldn't stop spinning theories; she knows just what to do to calm him down—to take care of him.

"You take good care of me," she admits, and he sees her breaking down, letting her walls collapse around them as her eyes twinkle at him, mysterious and warm. "I'm just not great at being taken care of yet."

He nods in understanding and turns his face into the hand she's raised to his cheek, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm. "I'll take accepting concern over injuries, and we can go from there."

She narrows her eyes and presses her lips together, but he knows she's just hiding her amusement. They'll get there. He'll push too hard, and she'll pull back, but as long as at the end of the day, they're here together, they'll be just fine.

"My ribs are okay," she promises.

"Can I get you into a bath to relax your muscles?"

She smiles, her lips unfurling to reveal her white teeth as she shakes her head at him. "They're already pretty relaxed," she purrs, letting her fingers swirl along his neck, "but I might like being taken care of if it involves that swimming pool."

"Even more if I'm in the pool with you?"

She shrugs, unimpressed, and he growls, lunging forward to wrap her in his arms, his lips and teeth nibbling up her neck until he hears that little moan. His fingers stray to her stomach and she jerks away, breathless. She grimaces a second later and he lets out a small sigh, pressing his lips to her nose.

"Come on," he says softly, taking her hands as he stands on wobbly legs. They teeter together, stumbling their way to the bathroom, limbs uncoordinated, relaxed by sex, exhausted by life.

He turns on the tub and glances around. "Candles?"

She nods, and wanders toward the toilet. "Get out so I can pee."

He laughs as he escapes to the sound of her quiet laughter behind him. He wanders the apartment, praying that his mother won't barge in, since he forwent grabbing any clothing. He finds candles in his office and brings them back, knocking lightly before pushing the door open, blinking in the light.

She smiles at him from her spot on the edge of the tub where she's combing her fingers through her hair, waves of chestnut tumbling down below her bare shoulders. He notices the light bruises around her ribs now, sees the bags under her eyes with more clarity, but she's still beautiful, and still so blissfully alive.

He dims the lights and pads over to her, setting the few candles he's collected along the edge of the tub, lighting them carefully, mindful of his uncovered skin. She laughs at him and he can't remember anything more wonderful than this moment, in his bathroom, being laughed at by the love of his life.

"A man could worry when a woman laughs at him while he's naked," he tells her as he reaches for the bubbles he's unashamed to keep by his tub.

"Do you really need me to stroke your ego?" she asks, standing to slide beside him to watch as the deep tub fills with hundreds of bubbles, her fingers trailing over his lower back. "Smells good," she adds.

It's lilac scented bubble-bath, a purchase he made sometime in the previous fall, when he desperately needed to relax. "I'm always open to you stroking my ego," he returns, reaching out to tug gently on a lock of her hair. "And right? Really nice."

"I should be surprised, but you are the man with the warming shaving cream."

"Shaving cream I caught you using three weeks ago!" She'd almost gotten away with it, since the shock of Kate shaving her legs, seated on the edge of his tub was nearly too much for him. But then he noticed the tube of shaving cream, and just how much she'd used on her unbelievably long legs.

"You're such a baby sometimes," she mumbles as he huffs, indignant from the memory. "It's just shaving cream."

"Fifty-dollar shaving cream."

"Well, don't leave it out if you're not willing to share," she asserts, turning to meet his gaze. "You want me here, I'm gonna use your shaving cream."

He just can't be mad, not if she's going to be there, shaving in his bathroom. "Fine," he grumbles for show. Honestly, he'd buy her a hundred tubes of the stuff if she wanted it.

She smirks, because she knows he would, and bends down to turn off the taps. She catches him eyeing the view on her way back up, and her smile widens. She steps into the tub, grabbing his hand to bring him with her, until they're settled in the water. She scoots into the vee of his legs, pausing to put her hair back up before she leans back against his chest.

"Not down?" he wonders, slightly put out. He loves to run his fingers through her hair.

"Wasn't counting on the bubbles, but I like them," she admits as she strokes her fingers over his thighs.

He cuddles her into his body, grateful when she goes boneless against him, sighing contentedly. He wants her to feel fantastic, wants to pamper her for two weeks, because he knows the physical part is easy. He can kiss her tears away, and hold her close, and make love to her, and sit here in his tub with her, but he can't go with her into her mind. He can't shoulder that burden for her. And though they're quiet and relaxed now, he knows that there's still a storm beneath the surface. There are still questions about the future, and what now, and where do they go, where does she go, without this thing that's controlled her life and bound them together. How does she live with peace, when she's been fighting for close to 14 years?

"My mom would have loved you," she whispers some twenty minutes later. The wistfulness and longing in her voice nearly cleaves his heart in two.

"I'm sure it would have been mutual," he tells her temple before he presses his lips to her skin.

"She would have adored Alexis too. And I think she would have gotten a kick out of your mom," she continues, leaning her head back to fall against his shoulder. She turns her face toward his neck, threading her fingers through his where he's wrapped his arm around her stomach.

"I don't," she begins, and pauses, breathing slowly, with measured inhales and exhales, trying not to cry. "I miss her."

"I know," he says, squeezing her hand, at a loss for any other way to give her support.

"I used to think solving it would make that go away—that somehow it would just…fix it." She laughs, her voice cracking. He looks down and finds her with her eyes squeezed shut as tears try to leak down her face. "But it doesn't. And I knew it wouldn't but I wanted—" She takes a shallow breath. "Wanted it to."

"I know," he manages, his own throat tight.

"I want her back, Castle," she whispers, turning to press her face into his neck as she hiccups out a sob. "I want my mom back."

Nothing he says can make it better, so he just holds on, rocks with her in the warm water as she weeps into him. He's grateful, so grateful that she's sharing this with him, even though it hurts and pierces through his heart, and her ragged breath pulls his from his chest and stings at the corners of his eyes. At least she's there with him. At least she doesn't have to do this alone, and she's letting him be the one to cradle her to his chest, to give the feeble comforts he can. Nothing can bring her mother back, but he hopes he's helping, even just if he's keeping her from going under in the bathtub.

"I was so sure when it was over I'd have freedom, or direction, or…something," she says, her voice low and muted as she snuffles. "And now I— God, it's so stupid."

"It's not stupid," he says immediately. "Not stupid at all."

"No," she shakes her head, curling in on herself in his arms. "No, it's stupid because I want to ask her what to do," she whispers. "And I can't."

"Oh, Kate," he sighs, turning his head to press his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry."

She snuffles something that sounds like a broken laugh and brings her free hand up to touch his cheek. "Don't be sorry."

"But—"

"No, you've—without you, I wouldn't have closure at all. And I needed this," she says, sitting up. He resists the urge to keep her there against his chest. But he doesn't know how this goes, is charting unknown waters in this bathtub that smells like a field of flowers. "So don't be sorry," she finishes with a shrug as she meets his eyes.

Hers are so red, so puffy, and her face is crusted from tears. He leans forward and presses his lips to her skin, moving over her face, tasting the salt on her cheeks as she raises her hands to run through his hair, anchoring him to her. She searches out his lips and tilts her head, breathing nosily through her nose as he tries to give her what she needs with his kiss, since his words have proven inadequate.

He feels inadequate. He wants to make it better, but he doesn't know how. He helped her get closure, but he can't help her solve this anymore.

"Thank you," she says as she pulls away, cradling his face in her palms.

"For what?" he has to ask, because he can't see it.

"For solving the case with me, and staying, and…and everything," she says, stroking a finger along his jaw. "For being my partner."

Always isn't enough, not this time. He doesn't have the words, can only press his lips to her fingers, her eyelids—can only wrap her in his arms and press his cheek to the crown of her head. Anything, everything, he would give her everything.

"I," the words stick in his throat and he runs his hands up and down her back.

He can feel her smiling into his throat as she strokes the nape of his neck. "You're good for me," she mumbles against his skin.

He hugs her too hard, feels her grimace and hears the little pant of breath she lets out, but she doesn't let go, doesn't move back. She clings to him just as tightly and they stay there in the cooling bathwater, with bubbles popping around them.

"It'll get better," he promises. He believes it. She'll rise from this again, and he'll be there beside her, to hold her hand and talk her to sleep and annoy her to insanity, cheering her along.

She pulls back after a long moment, resting her hands on his forearms where they sit on her shoulders. "We're pruning."

He laughs and looks down at her wrinkled fingers, following his arms up to his own hands. She smiles softly and stands, reaching down to help pull him up. They step out and move into the shower, rinsing each other off before returning into the steamy air, clean and relaxed. They dry off with his big, fluffy towels, and then she takes his hands and brings him back into the bedroom by the tips of her fingers.

"Movie?" he suggests as they stand in the dawning light from the window. It's nearly five in the morning already. It's a good thing she's got two weeks leave; their sleep schedule's toast.

"Sure," she murmurs, glancing out the window. "Popcorn?"

"At five in the morning?" She turns back to him, an eyebrow raised, and he drops her hands, bending quickly to find a pair of boxers. "Right. Popcorn."

She laughs him out of the room and he hears her fall back onto his bed. He forces himself to keep moving into the kitchen, refuses to simply turn around and pin her to the mattress. He pops a bag into the microwave and then wanders through the living room in search of his Ipad. He finds it beneath a stack of copied files he filched so they could continue working even when Gates sent them home. He takes a moment to stack them up before he slides them onto a high shelf in the bookcase. He won't get rid of them, not without her, but they don't need to be lying around anymore.

It's over now, and he has a gorgeous, naked, hungry detective in his bed. That's all that matters.

He grabs the bag as the microwave beeps and tosses the contents into a large bowl. He dithers momentarily over adding extra butter flavoring. She needs all the calories she can get, and, well, he's never one to say no to a little more spice. So he returns to the bedroom, bowl and Ipad in one arm, two glasses of water in the other to counteract the salt.

Sunlight slants over the floorboards as he walks through the office and into his bedroom. It washes her with soft light as she lounges in his bed, the pillows stacked up against the headboard, her body covered in the comforter and a button down she's found. He'll miss her naked skin beneath his fingers, but she looks damn good in his shirt, with her hair free again as she stretches her arms over her head, arching her back.

"I won't be held responsible for my actions if you keep that up," he informs her as he clambers in beside her, grinning as she winks and takes the bowl from him, giving him room to snuggle under the blankets.

"Gimme a few hours," she says as she settles next to him, the bowl firmly on her lap as he flips back the cover of the Ipad and brings up his Netflix account.

"I'll hold you to that. What do you want to watch?"

She rests her chin on his shoulder as they scroll through the queue, a list complied by his daughter, his mother, and them, on the rare nights they've spent here, unable to sleep, and too distracted to keep themselves otherwise occupied. The variety is a little overwhelming, and he finds he's slightly terrified by the number of slasher films on the list, right beside the mushiest of romantic comedies. Their few picks—a slew of con movies that were influenced by a night with more than two bottles of wine—are randomly arranged with all of his family's choices.

"We're an odd bunch," she murmurs, digging her chin into his shoulder. "Something light?"

"We talkin' romantic comedy light, or con light?"

"Nothing procedural," she says instantly, and he nods, skipping over the cop dramas and comedies they usually enjoy together.

"Forbidden Planet?"

She chuckles into his shoulder, turning to lean her cheek against him. "Perfect."

He smiles and clicks the link, watching as it loads. "Sometime soon we should go on a real date," he suggests, reaching over to snag a little popcorn as she takes a handful. He makes sure their hands brush and she laughs quietly.

"Sure."

He turns his head to look down at her. "You don't sound very excited."

She hums and wraps her arm around his, pressing her lips to his skin. "You don't have to woo me."

"I'm not trying to woo you," he protests, nudging her. "I'm trying to romance you. Very different."

"You don't have to romance me either."

"You deserve to be romanced a little, Kate," he asserts, turning his head to find her eyes. "And I think we deserve a little normalcy."

She blinks for a moment before she nods at him, a soft smile on her face. "Then I'd like that. But really, when have we ever been normal?"

He laughs and reaches out to shove popcorn in her face. She yelps in protest and retaliates, and suddenly they're pelting each other with popcorn, the Ipad forgotten on the comforter. When the bowl is empty and they're surrounded in a sea of little yellow and white snacks, they calm down and look at each other, laughing.

"Guess we won't be starting anytime soon," she offers, breathless with laughter and shining with the light back in her eyes, a grin on her face.

"Normal's overrated anyway," he decides just before he lunges for her, tackling her sideways, crunching popcorn beneath their bodies as he finds her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Eagerly looking toward the summer to be an underling, and I couldn't be more excited.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3:<strong>

"I need to go see my dad," she says as they sit on his couch, mugs of coffee clutched in their hands. She sighs and slouches next to him, the bottom of his button down riding up her toned stomach as she fiddles with the pair of boxers she threw on to come and sit in the living room.

"I'm sure he'd love to see you," he says, lacking for anything better. "Do you want company?"

She turns and looks at him, half hopeful, half defiant. "I'd—no, but thank you," she says, reaching out to squeeze his knee. "It would be nice, but…it needs to be just me."

He nods and covers her hand with his. "I can drop you off," he offers, trying to meet her halfway. The danger's passed now, but he still—the very idea of her being out of his sight still sends some beast of anxiety clawing up his chest.

She regards him curiously for a moment before he sees it fall over her face. Then there's a war between thinking he's sweet and thinking he's being ridiculous. She really doesn't even try to hide it anymore.

"Come back with me and then I'll come back here after?" she asks, smiling as he eagerly nods. Better than nothing.

So they part ways, she to call her father, and he to get dressed. He understands why he shouldn't be there, agrees that it's just for them, just for their little broken family—that giving her father closure is her load to bear, not his. He just wants to shoulder it with her.

But he can't, so he settles on 'helping' her back into her ragged jeans, taking great pains to rile her up as much as possible, though, by all accounts, neither of them is really up for anything near round three.

He forces an apple on her and insists on driving to her apartment. She lets him, and he watches her, confused as she calmly sits down in the passenger seat. She looks rather out of place there, hands twisting in her lap as she nibbles on her lip, apple somewhere in the console. She's nervous, but he can't do much about it, not while he's driving, and he curses his decision for a good five minutes before she leans forward and starts fiddling with the radio.

Switch. Switch. Switch. Thirty seconds. Switch. It's annoying. It's really, really annoying. Finally, after the tenth switch, he snaps.

"Kate," he exclaims, catching her eye as they come to a stop.

"Oh, so it's fun when you do it, but when I do it, it's irritating?"

She's teaching him a lesson? Well. "Sorry, my car, my rules," he declares, reaching out to press the sixth preset, his mother's channel. Classical music fills the car and Kate glares at him.

"Seriously?"

"You don't like Dvorak?" he asks innocently, glancing over as they head down her block.

"Even I'm not this mean," she grumbles, pointing at a spot.

"Oh, like the morning we listened to country music all the way to White Plains wasn't mean," he scoffs, expertly parallel parking, just to show her that he is indeed capable of such a feat.

"You deserved that," she argues. "I don't deserve this. Five minutes is not the same as two hours of paperclip chains and paper football."

"Bet you didn't punish Esposito and Ryan that way," he says petulantly as they mutually exit the car, leaving the 9th World Symphony behind; he actually likes it, but he'll remember to enjoy it on his own from now on.

"I can always give them more paperwork," she says as they walk toward her building. "I don't have that option with you."

"Hey, I've done my fair share recently," he argues.

They pause at the door and look at each other. He hadn't really meant it that way. Her mother's case doesn't count, and she knows it. But he's broken them out of their little bubble. They were doing pretty well with pretending that nothing was out of order too.

"You've done more than your fair share," she says quietly, reaching up to smooth his collar.

"Let me pack you a bag and do your dishes?" he offers, half pleading. He just can't let her go yet.

She smiles softly. "You can pack me a bag if you need to, but dishes? It's no fun if I don't have to work for it."

He shakes his head and pulls her into his chest, there in the dwindling sunlight, on the street, for the world to see. He hardly cares. "I think you've more than earned it recently," he tells the crown of her head as a cloud blocks out the last of the light, casting the street into shadow. How dismally dramatic of it.

"We're edging toward coddling, Rick," she says as she pulls back, still smiling, but he can see the warning there.

He takes it, because she's standing there telling him to back down. Telling him, being open with him about her emotions, being honest. Yeah, they're going somewhere good.

"Noted," he says easily, teasingly, and he delights in it when she rolls her eyes at him, grabbing his hand to bring him into her lobby and up to her apartment.

It's messy. The very few times they managed to make it out of the precinct in the last week, it was to collapse here, and it shows. There are still stale Chinese cartons on the coffee table, and the kitchen trash suffuses the entire apartment with the smell of old food and sour cream. Papers are everywhere, and it looks like her murder board exploded out of her office to course through her living room.

She sucks in a breath as they stand at the edge of the kitchen. "Didn't really think it was this bad," she says quietly.

"Don't worry about it," he assures her. He has a project now, something to keep him busy while she's with her father.

"You can't do my dishes, but you can clean my apartment?" she asks, turning to him, eyebrows raised, arms across her chest.

"Well, I'd be supervising the elves," he says timidly.

She shakes her head and starts for her bedroom, leaving him to follow after her. He sits on her bed as she wanders the room, grabbing jeans and a flowing, purple cotton top she pulls on over a new tank top and bra. She may not love the idea of him cleaning her place, but she doesn't have any issues stripping down with him calmly watching her from her bed.

She runs a brush through her hair and slips into a discarded pair of grey flats. "Okay?" she asks quietly, turning back to face him, insecurity there on her face.

"You look great," he assures her, miffed. She's never asked him for fashion advice, and he can only remember giving it once, back in the beginning, when he'd strong-armed her into a thousand-dollar red gown.

He should see if she still has it once she's left to meet her father. Oh. Oh, she's—"You look just fine," he adds, standing to walk over to her where she's struggling to clip on her watch. "He'll be okay, Kate."

She nods and lets out a frustrated growl as she fails to latch the clasp. He takes her hand and does it for her, frowning as she leans in to rest her forehead against his shoulder. "You okay?"

She nods and takes a deep breath before pulling back to look at him, turning her hand in his so she can tangle their fingers together. "Thanks."

He leans down and presses his lips to her briefly, using his free hand to cup her cheek as he steps back. "He's going to be so proud of you."

She meets his eyes and he sees it there, the look he sometimes gets from Alexis, desperate to please, worried, daughter-like. Because she's someone's daughter, the last part of a family for her father, a child to only one remaining parent.

"I, yeah," she says, shaking her head for a moment as she clears her throat. "I just hope—nothing's enough, you know?"

He smiles sadly and squeezes her hand. "Kate, you've done more than enough. Your dad loves you."

"I know," she exclaims quickly, almost-defensive, but she doesn't quite have the energy for it. "I know."

"You don't have to fill the space your mother left behind," he says softly, watching the way she stiffens, as if no one's ever said it before. "Now you guys can…move on, let go, grieve—whatever you need to do. You've given him that freedom."

Her lip trembles and he's thrown back to a night in September, when she told him everyone was gone, everyone associated with her mother's case was dead, but for her, and for him. Now, it's just her mother, and maybe Roy somewhere in there too, who's gone. Now she's just a broken daughter who has to find the strength to explain to her father why her mother was murdered—who has to shoulder a burden that should never have been hers to bear.

But, unlike that night in September, now he can haul her into his chest as she shudders, can run his fingers through her hair and press his lips to her temple as she clutches at his back. He's here. He'll be there to come back to. He's not gone, and neither is she. She just has to believe that.

"I need to go," she mumbles a few minutes later.

"Okay." He gently disengages, reaching up to dry her cheeks as she slowly loosens the grip she has on his shirt.

"I'm not a crier, for the record," she says, sniffling.

He laughs and shakes his head, catching her hands as they fall from his back. "Don't care if you are."

"Well, I'm not," she asserts, and he can see her putting herself back together, using their banter to build up her shields. "Don't expect me to stay clingy."

"You're not clingy," he huffs, feigning exasperation. "Though, feel free. I don't mind having you pressed up against me."

She lets out a watery chuckle and reaches up to smooth her hand over his shoulder. "I could do without the snot."

"I love all your bodily fluids," he says, before he really thinks it through.

She snorts and wrinkles her nose, staring at him, incredulous. "Gross, Castle."

He lifts a shoulder and gives her a lopsided grin. "Not as gross as I could have been."

She laughs, louder, fuller, and pats his cheek before stepping away. "I'll keep that in mind."

He follows her out of the bedroom and back to the door, distant sounds of thunder crackling through the one open window in the living room. Papers flutter on the couch as the wind picks up outside.

"Take an umbrella," he urges, watching as she dons a raincoat he's never seen before. It's pale blue and it makes her look so young, as she stands by the door, one of her hands twisting into the bottom of her shirt.

She reaches out and snags a small black umbrella from the hook and turns back to look at him. "Please don't clean too much," she says, going for a glare, but failing miserably.

"You just worry about staying dry," he tells her as he leans against the archway into the kitchen. He's not going to hug her again. She's pulling herself together, gathering strength and independence. He can see her back straightening with it.

"See you at the loft?" she asks after a moment.

"Yeah. Gimme a call when you're on your way back."

She nods and gives him a last look before she slips out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. Silence rings out as he stands there in her hallway, alone.

Slowly, he turns back to the apartment and lets out a small sigh. He's completely happy to clean it, and most assuredly needs something to do, but cleaning's not fun, and reliving the memories of what he's cleaning won't be pleasant.

He trudges through, gathering their discarded plates and cartons and chopsticks, taking out the garbage. He stacks all the papers and leaves them in a small plastic file-holder she bought for the case. He places it beneath the murder board and shuts the blinds, closing it up until she's ready to take it down.

Her desk comes next, and he makes sure to arrange everything differently, just to annoy her the first time she comes to use it. Hopefully, she'll laugh and call him to reprimand him. Otherwise, she'll get pissed off and then he can pin her to his bed in apology. Both options seem pretty good, so he makes sure to adjust the height of her chair too.

When he's gone through the living room and the office, he straightens books and changes the sheets on her bed. He fluffs the pillows and folds the comforter, placing the dirty blankets in her hamper, along with all of the clothes scattered on the floor. Some of them are his, but he won't miss them.

He's not sure he has enough time to do laundry, so, like the dishes, he leaves the clothes and makes his way into her bathroom. It's not that messy, but he cleans anyway, wipes down the counter, scrubs the toilet. He lets the shower run to steam up the bathroom, and then takes his time to doodle on her mirrors, leaving a few messages that range from, "I love you," to "pop another button, please."

He feels a little loopy with exhaustion and release, so he's not really sure if it's a great idea when he returns from packing her bag and changes the background of her computer to a picture of the two of them asleep on the break room couch. He'll have to thank Javi for that one.

It's not a great memory. They collapsed because they'd been waiting to hear back from forensics and she'd been unwilling to leave. But the way her body is snuggled into his, her face pressed into his bicep as his mouth hangs open in her hair, is cute. They look good together—a fit, her smaller body surrounded by his.

He scrubs his hands over his face and leans back in her chair for a moment before he gets up and wanders back to the kitchen to grab his phone and her bag to head back to his own apartment. He should probably straighten up there as well.

He locks up with the key she gave him a month ago and smiles at it as he calls for the elevator. He has a key to her place, and she one to his. It's definitely too early to ask her to move in, but this is a step in the right direction. He'd move in with her, but the loft, Alexis, his mother—she wouldn't let him leave them. And he's rather sure that she secretly loves his place because it comes with a family.

There was a moment back before everything combusted, when he came out of his office to find the three of them huddled around the kitchen counter, paging through a magazine, looking at prom gowns for his daughter. It was before they were even a couple, at a time when she and Alexis were still at a tentative place, and his mother was more interested in making suggestive comments than really getting to know Kate, but still. It had warmed his heart, and the look in her eyes when Alexis suggested she stay for dinner had stolen his breath away.

He steps into the elevator and leans back against the wall, glancing at his phone to check the time. He's shocked to find that it's been almost three hours since she left. He hopes she's not back at his place yet, but he doubts she will be. He doesn't imagine that her talk with her father will be a short affair.

But when he's cleaned his own place and outlined a chapter of Nikki Heat, all without a call from Kate, he begins to worry. It's four already, and she left for her dad's at eleven. He walks back into the living room, and sighs. He can't call her. He needs to let her be. But it's been hours and he's still jittery.

When his phone rings, he nearly falls over himself racing back to his office to grab it from the desk.

"Hello?" he asks breathlessly.

"Rick?"

It's not Kate, but close. "Jim, how are you?" he offers as he sinks into his desk chair.

"I'm all right, considering," he says quietly.

"That's good," Castle replies, feeling inadequate.

"I just wanted to thank you," the man continues. "For everything you've done for Kate, for me."

"It's been my pleasure," he says as he runs a hand through his hair.

Jim chuckles. "I highly doubt that, but thank you all the same."

"Sir, I…really, anything she needs, I'm—"

"I know," Jim cuts him off, mercifully. There's just something about this man that turns him into a blundering 15-year-old again. "I'm glad she has you."

"It's mutual."

"Good," Jim says, something paternal and a little frightening sitting on the edge of his voice. "But I actually called to make sure Katie got back okay."

"Got back?" he repeats, sitting up, his entire body already poised to panic.

"She said she was going to visit her mother, and she'd call when she got back, but she hasn't called yet." He can hear the edge to Jim's voice too and with that he's out of his chair.

"How long ago did she leave?" he asks as he slips into shoes and searches for his jacket.

"Around two. I take it she's not back yet."

"No," he replies honestly. "But I'm sure it's…"

"She used to sit out there for hours, at the start," Jim says quietly. "But it's raining and she was…not quite herself. Understandably so, but I just wanted to make sure she came back."

(…)

New Montefoire Cemetery stretches on in a seemingly endless abyss of tombstones, laid out in clean lines, interspersed with trees. There's no one there, but for the persistent pound of rain on his large umbrella and the squelch of muddy grass beneath his feet. It sets his teeth on edge as he wanders through the aisles.

It feels too much like the previous summer. The weather is different, the tombstones unique, but it's a graveyard, like the one where she almost died. When the glint had given him a split second before she was bleeding out beneath his hands, eyes wide and terrified as words poured out of his lips—words that came to haunt them as much as the ghost of her mother.

He wanders aimlessly, really should have asked where Johanna's grave was, and feels his nerves rising with every passing minute. He finds himself shrinking back from shadows, picking up speed with the drone of the rain. Need growls in his system—need to find her, make sure she's safe. It's absurd, because it's over, but the phantom panic roils in his chest, until finally, finally, he spots her.

A huddled mass of pale blue and black, she kneels on the ground, umbrella held listlessly above her, one hand resting on top of the granite, thumb smoothing over the rough surface.

He pauses a few markers away, suddenly unsure of whether he should have come to get her, or should have stayed at home and waited her out—given her the distance she asked for, supressed his own worry to soothe hers. He watches her and hears her voice as she begins to speak again. He can't see her face, but her words have a certain lilt.

"…my boyfriend, who never can leave well enough alone," she says.

He startles forward on a surprised breath and then stops when he's a few feet from her. He's not good with this—has no experience with mothers, dead mothers, talking to tombstones. She turns and looks up at him through wet hair. She's pretty soaked. That little umbrella's not doing much, and she's been out here for hours.

"This is Rick," she says after a moment, extending a hand to him.

He falls to the ground beside her, moving his arm so that his large umbrella covers them both. It's red, and enormous, purchased when Alexis was still little and attached to him by one hand or the other at all times.

"I…hi," he manages as she closes her umbrella, smirking.

"You probably know him better as Castle, the pain in my ass," she adds.

"Hey!" he protests, nudging her, shocked by how light she sounds. "I'm…I like to think I'm not a pain in the ass anymore," he tells the tombstone. "You still tell her I'm a pain in the ass?"

Kate laughs and squeezes his hand, leaning into him. "I haven't been back since before last summer," she tells him softly.

His false-outrage falls away and he leans in to press his lips to her cheek, watching the way her fingers wind around his free hand.

"I was just telling her about the case and everything you found—how you've been so great with giving me space and being there," she says after a quiet minute.

"I'm sorry I came, I just…your dad called to make sure you got back and I kind of," he lets out a sigh as she meets his eyes. "Kind of freaked. I'm not out of the whole you-being-gone-means-they-got-you place yet."

Her eyes flutter for a moment and she takes a deep breath. "What times is it?"

"Almost five," he murmurs.

"Shit," she groans, letting her forehead fall to hit his shoulder. "I need to call my dad," she says hurriedly, releasing his hand to grope in her pockets for her phone.

"I got it," he says gently, pressing Jim's number as he hands her his phone.

She takes it and grimaces as her father answers, his, "Did you find her?" floating out to them, a little too loud, a little too frantic.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "No. Yeah…I know. Sorry, I didn't…I didn't think…watch was in my pocket. Yeah, I'll tell him. You too. Bye, dad."

She clicks off and stares at the tombstone sheepishly as she hands the phone back to him. "Apparently all of the men in my life are still a little on edge," she tells her mother. "And stop saying serves you right, wherever you are."

Castle can't help the bark of laughter that bubbles out at that, though he shrinks back a little as Kate swings a glare to him. "Sorry," he says timidly.

She shakes her head and then cracks a smile, reaching to take his hand again. "She had a thing about saying I told you so," Kate explains, smiling at the marker. "Pissed me off to no end when I was a kid, but I'd…" she trails off and he rubs his thumb over her hand.

"I know it's not the same, but I'm happy to be right more often, and smug about it," he offers, hoping to keep her spirits high.

She whacks him in the stomach with both of their hands and he grins, success. "You're insufferable enough already, Castle," she says.

"Your daughter's mean," he informs the marker. How he wishes they were sitting at a café together, across from the woman who would probably both terrify and amaze him, warm brown eyes staring adoringly at her daughter.

"Don't tell her that," Kate exclaims. "I'm not mean."

He smiles and brings their hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her chilly pulse. "She's extraordinary," he corrects. Kate blushes slightly and he smiles against her skin. "And cold."

She shivers then and he reluctantly releases her hand to stand up, careful to keep the umbrella above her. She brings her gaze back to the marker and he watches as she reaches out to touch her fingers to her mother's name, carved in light-gray stone, cold and lifeless.

"I…" she swallows and closes her eyes. "Love you, mom," she says softly.

He extends a hand and helps her up, surprised when she surges forward to wrap herself around him, pressing her chilled forehead into his neck. He runs his free hand up and down her back, slick with water.

"Ready to go home?" he asks a few minutes later, when her shivers have transferred to his own body.

She nods against his shoulder and then steps back to take his hand, letting him lead her out of the cemetery.

"How much of my apartment did you clean?" she asks as they reach his car a ways down the block. He shrugs and opens the passenger door for her, holding the umbrella above them so her seat stays dry.

She rolls her eyes and he closes the door, jogging around to slip into his own seat. He tosses the umbrella into the back and starts the engine, turning the heat up as he does. He doesn't put the car into drive and turns to look at her instead.

She's watching him, shoes kicked off as she sits with her legs pulled up, head resting on her knees. "Thanks for coming to get me."

He smiles and reaches out to squeeze her hand. "Thanks for not hitting me."

She gives him a small smile. "I thought you'd be happy to let me spank you."

He laughs and puts the car into drive, waiting until there's a gap in the rush-hour traffic. "Rather you didn't do it in front of your mom, though," he says when they reach their first red light.

She scrunches up her face and makes a disgusted sound. "No. And it's more fun when I'm not soaked."

"I wouldn't be too—"

She reaches out and punches his shoulder as he grins. "You're horrible."

"Yet you love me."

He has to focus on the road then, but he hears her little hum of consent, before her fingers trail down his arm and out of sight. He glances over as they hit another light and finds her with her eyes closed, hands curled around her ankles.

"Want me to order something?" he asks softly, when her forehead wrinkles, a sure sign that she's slipping out of their little bubble.

She blinks her eyes open. "Just take me home?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Kind of still at college…**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4:<strong>

"Darlings!" his mother greets them as they close the door to the loft, pants dripping water onto the floor. "You're here. Oh, and you're soaked."

Kate gives her a tired smile as she hands him her umbrella and raincoat. Castle hangs their coats over the hall chair and reaches inside them to grab their electronics, pocketing his phone and leaving hers on the side table.

His mother returns with towels and hands one to Kate as she wipes her wet hair off her face.

"Thank you, Martha," she says quietly.

His mother clucks her tongue and reaches out to squeeze her hand. "Nonsense. Can I make you a cup of tea? You look frozen."

"That would be great," Kate replies, allowing his mother to bring her through and into the kitchen, where she ushers her up onto a stool.

He follows, listening as his mother prattles on as she grabs the kettle and fills it with water. She's wearing that trippy pant suit again, the one with the colors that nearly give him a headache. But Kate is smiling tiredly at her, and he might love his mother just a little more for that—for the warmth she gives his girlfriend.

"Richard, go get this woman a sweatshirt or something, honestly."

He frowns at his mother, but Kate's snickering into her hand, so he turns his gaze to her instead. "You too?"

"You heard her, Castle. Get me something warm."

Her eyes twinkle exhaustedly at him as he saunters over to plant his hands on her shoulders, waiting until she tips her head back to look up at him. His mother turns back to the kettle, in a rare show of privacy, and he takes the opportunity to bend over Kate and find her lips with his.

"I could warm you up in other ways," he mumbles softly against her lips, her nose pressing into his chin.

"First my mother, now yours?" she scoffs as he pulls back. "I'm starting to think you have some sort of oedipian exhibition complex."

He rears back in disgust and she laughs at him. "Is that actually a thing?"

"I really hope not," she says, giving Martha a smile as the woman turns around.

"Richard."

"Going," he says hastily, retreating to his room to find her a sweater and a new pair of pants, since his mother obviously missed the surge of wet denim his girlfriend—he does love that word—developed by kneeling in the muddy grass for over two hours.

He shucks out of his own wet jeans and replaces them along with his socks. He steps into a pair of slippers and wanders back out into the living room, listening as his mother regales Kate with a wild story from the party she attended the previous evening. Kate nods along, hands wrapped around the large mug his mother placed in front of her.

He comes up behind her and drapes the sweatshirt over her shoulders, sliding the folded jeans onto the counter as he sits down next to her. She turns and gives him a smile, pushing her mug toward him.

Surprised, he takes a sip and tastes the hint of her lip balm, the kind she only wears at home. It's funny, the things he's picked up from a month of being with her, even though they rarely spent much time at either of their homes.

She's talking to his mother again, but he's not really listening. His head's too caught up the sight of her wet on the ground in front of her mother's grave—of the reality that no matter what, she'll never have a mother like he does, and the things he wants for her, with her, will all be colored by that loss. He wishes it were different, but knows that the only course to now came from then. It makes him ache, to think that he gets her because she can't have her mother.

Her hand finds his knee, squeezes, and he takes a breath, bringing himself back to the present. There will be joy, despite the loss. There will be happiness and love and laughter again, without the constant threat of tears and trembles and gripping hugs on both sides. It comes with time, with sitting in his kitchen, listening to his mother.

"Do you two have plans for the next two weeks?" Martha asks, making an obvious effort to re-include him in the conversation, giving him quite a look. At least they're taking turns.

He looks at Kate and finds her regarding him with curiosity. Was he supposed to plan something? Crap. "Uh…"

She laughs and steals the mug back from him. "Just relaxing, I think," she tells his mother. "Might be nice to see a little theatre, catch the movies we've missed."

"We never did make it to _The Bourne Legacy_."

"Is that even still playing?" she wonders as she rubs at her side.

"Somewhere, I'm sure," he shrugs, running his hand over her back. "Do you want something for that?"

"Are you hurt, dear?" Martha asks, leaning her elbows on the counter across from them.

Kate hesitates for a moment before sagging, her back coming to rest against his hand. "I took a slam to a brick wall yesterday and my ribs weren't pleased."

His mother tuts and whirls around, throwing open the cabinet with the tea and medicine. She searches for a minute while Castle moves his thumb in circles against the soft material of Kate's shirt. Her fingers sweep over her side more pointedly, finding the place he know marks the thin surgery scar.

"Pulling?"

"Yeah," she mumbles, frustrated. "Maybe something's swollen. It doesn't normally do that."

"See," he sighs, sliding his hand under hers to get better pressure on the scar. She lets out a low breath and shoots him a pained smile as he finds the right place with his thumb. "When you say things like swollen, it just makes me want to take you to the hospital."

She groans and rubs at her temple. "What, you don't want to play doctor?" she asks, her voice a few notes lower, though the effect is kind of quelled by the wince as he digs a little too deep.

"Only if you're wearing a naughty nurse outfit, and right now, I'm thinking it might not be the most pleasant experience."

"Richard, stop fantasizing; Kate's hurt," his mother chides, returning to hand Kate a glass of water and an Aleve. "This should help."

Kate grins and downs the pills, silently laughing at him as he glares at his mother. "I was actually saying I want to get her checked out."

Kate shakes her head vigorously and his mother considers them. "Perhaps give it another night? No reason to spend time in the hospital if it's not critical."

"Thank you," Kate says quietly as he sighs.

His mother's right, and on top of that, the pallor of Kate's skin at the thought of the hospital already had him running the other way. He'll have to ask her about that sometime soon. They've never really discussed those months in detail—covered them in a few vicious fights, but never talked calmly. He's never gotten to ask about what it was like to lie in the hospital bed, ostensibly alone for much of that time, in pain, scared, and unable to move.

If the mere mention makes her pale, it can't be good. The only comfort he can take in it is that if she needs to go to the hospital again tomorrow, a week from now, or years from now, he can sit by her side, hold her hand, and tell her everything will be okay. And he'll be able to see for himself that she's alive and well.

"Okay," he concedes. "Are you staying for dinner, mother?"

"Depends on what we're having," she says, giving him a cheeky smile. Kate laughs beside him and he can't help but smile himself. "I was thinking about dropping in on Alexis otherwise."

"And you've okayed that with her?" he asks immediately. They made a pact, when Alexis decided to go to Columbia, that there would be no unsolicited visits. She was at college, even if they were still in the same city.

"She said she'd text me if she got her work done. You're welcome to join us, but she understands that the two of you might want to rest a day or two more before dining out."

He looks over at Kate just in time to see her straighten herself up, putting on a mask of energy she certainly doesn't have. He really wants to see his kid, but he wants to look healthy and safe before he does. His knuckles hurt like hell and he's sure the bags under his girlfriend's eyes are equally mirrored under his own.

"Maybe tomorrow night she'd like to come over for dinner?" he suggests, and Kate deflates with a smile, nodding vigorously.

"That would be nice."

Martha hums her consent and takes out her phone, tapping away, a new skill she's picked up since Alexis left for college. She's a little too fond of abbreviations, and Alexis has bemoaned her incorrect use of 'BRB' and 'ROFL' more than once. But she's making an effort, and he knows his daughter appreciates it.

"Chinese?" Kate suggests, bringing his focus back from his mother.

"Sounds good. Do you want traditional stuff, or are you thinking fancy?"

She laughs and leans into him, her head finding purchase on his shoulder. "If it's got soy sauce, I'm happy."

"So easy to please," he says as he rests his cheek on the crown of her head.

"Not for long. Enjoy it."

"Oh, I plan to," he teases, scraping his nails lightly along her right side, delighting in her muted shiver. They're just going to sleep tonight. She needs a really full night of uninterrupted sleep. By the way his shoulders are starting to cramp up, so does he.

She shivers again and he realizes she's cold, sitting at the counter in her wet jeans. He pushes the clean pair toward her and she nods against his shoulder, breathing for a moment before she straightens up and grabs the pants. She hops down from the stool and moves toward his office just as his mother looks up from her new iPhone.

"How are you, really?" she asks, setting the phone down as she comes to stand directly across from him.

He sighs and meets her eyes, feeling rather young. "We're okay. She's," he pauses and tries to find the right words. "Reeling. But we're good, and I think—I want to think I'm helping."

Martha smiles and walks around the counter to sit next to him. She slides her hand into his and squeezes as he turns to look at her. "Why were you wet?"

"She went to visit her mother and I, uh, went to get her," he explains.

"And how are you, Richard?"

"Me?"

His mother nods and gives him that look—the one she used to use when he was a kid—the spill your secrets look.

"I'm," he shakes his head, forces himself to find the honesty he so values in Kate now. "I'm shaken."

His mother nods and brings his injured hand up to her lips, in a gesture of affection that he hasn't felt from her in many years. Too many, really—he stopped looking for comfort too young, found his independence too soon. Maybe if he'd been needier, she would have been more attentive.

But she's there now, and there's a strength she exudes that seeps into his veins just as he hears Kate padding back into the room. His mother gently pats his palm and stands up, making grand overtures about going upstairs to freshen up, and for them to call her when dinner arrives.

He turns to look at Kate, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and finds her settled on the couch, head turned toward him. She watches as he makes his way to her, calling in their order for dumplings, and spare ribs, fried rice, wanton soup, and scallion pancakes.

When he's finished, he plops down next to her, smiling as she tosses her feet into his lap. She has a habit of stealing his socks, he's noticing, and it takes him a few squeezes to find her feet beneath the fabric. She smiles as he works the knots out of her feet, her head falling to rest against her elbow long the back of the couch.

"Is this hurting your hand?" she asks after a few minutes.

He shrugs. It is, but he's rather enjoying her little sighs of pleasure. She frowns and pulls her feet away, swinging herself around so that they're side by side. She reaches out and flicks his thigh.

"Don't martyr yourself just so I can relax."

He turns to defend himself but finds her already waiting with an unimpressed glare. "Fine," he huffs.

"I appreciate it," she adds, running her fingers over his thigh, stroking little patterns that relax his entire body. "But don't be stupid about it."

"It wasn't stupid," he protests as he runs his arm along the back of the couch to settle on her shoulders. "Maybe you're just too alluring, moaning like that."

"I wasn't moaning," she shoots back, even as her hand tightens briefly on his thigh. "But seriously, I get that—you're," she pauses and takes a breath, biting at her lower lip. "Don't make this all about me."

He opens his mouth but finds himself with nothing to say. It is about her. It's always been. He doesn't mind. He wants it to be about her, because he loves her. And he's not blind to his own needs, wouldn't jump into traffic just to get her ice cream, or run himself ragged trying to entertain her, simply because she was bored. But he likes comforting her, likes taking care of her—wants so badly to heal the hurt that radiates off her in waves. She can pamper him later, when his next book comes out and he needs a distraction, when Alexis' absence really hits home.

"I know I'm a mess," she says quietly, squeezing his leg when he tries to protest. "And I know that," she sighs and lets her head fall to lean back against his arm. "I know that it's not easy for you—none of this is. So, just, don't hide that, okay?"

He nods slowly, reaching over to wrap his injured hand around hers on his leg. "I'm not, and I won't."

"You get to be shaken," she continues, her voice an exhausted whisper.

Oh, she heard him and his mother. Fair's fair; he's overheard enough of her conversations in his time. He doesn't want to make her worry—doesn't want to add anything else to the melee already in her mind. But he can't ask her to share herself if he won't share back. They've tried that already, and it ended with screaming and tears and a broken vase in his office

"Okay," he says quietly, watching as her hand leaves his so she can turn and tuck herself into his side, swinging her legs over his so her knees are across his lap and her fingers play with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

They stay there for a long while, her hands fiddling with his buttons as his card through her hair.

"You know what I haven't done in a long time?" she says, breaking the contented silence.

"Bungee jump?"

"Bungee jump? What kind of guess is that?"

"Well, it was either that or pole dance, but I thought the latter mig—ow!" She grins as she pulls her hand away from his ear and he frowns at her. "Jeez woman, violence is not the answer."

Her eyes flash and he shrinks back from her, granted it's tough with her on his lap. "Calling me 'woman' is not the way to avoid my wrath."

He laughs, startled, though she is kind of scary. After a moment, her stony glare cracks and she leans her forehead against his cheek, chuckling, her breath warm across his collarbone.

"What were you going to say?" he murmurs, turning his head to press his lips to her forehead. Scary, powerful, sexy woman, and she has the softest skin.

"That I haven't been sailing in forever."

"Sailing," he repeats, trying to wrap his head around it. He's never thought about Kate on the open water, hair blowing back in the wind as she bends over to tighten ropes. It's not a bad image at all. "You want to go sailing?"

"It's still pretty warm out," she says, lifting her shoulder against his. "Just a thought."

"We can go sailing, sure," he agrees. He's happy to take her out to do anything, and sailing sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than gardening, though, he'd do that too. He knows it's something she might like, what with the plants that struggle for life on her windowsills.

"Don't tell me you already have a boat," she mumbles into his shirt.

He laughs and shakes his head, bumping her forehead with his chin. "No, but I know a guy who does."

"Of course you do."

"Can you sail, or do I need to find us someone?" he asks, since he's certainly not sea-worthy. He'll enjoy a beer and the feel of her against his side in the wind, but it would be pitiful if after all of this, they die at his hand, out at sea, because he can't steer the damn ship.

"An actual captain might not be a bad idea," she admits, smiling. "No yachts."

"Wasn't even considering it," he says honestly. For many things, he'll go over the top, but yachts are more for the weddings and anniversaries he's not thinking about, or even remotely considering. Not at all.

"Good," she says just as the doorbell rings. "Food."

He chuckles at the eagerness in her tone and gently dislodges her, standing on tired legs to traipse over to the door while she gets off the couch. He calls up to his mother as he opens the door, handing the delivery kid a large tip—larger than he should, anyway. He's feeling generous tonight. Hell, he might be feeling overly generous for the rest of the life.

"Kate," he says, the thought popping into his head as he joins her at the table, where she's already set out plates and silverware. She moves fast, in his kitchen—knows where everything is.

"Hmm?" she offers as she grabs glasses and the pitcher from the refrigerator, demonstrating a nimbleness he hasn't seen before.

"We should think about the benefit dinner soon."

"The," she trails off as her eyes grow wide, and he wonders, suddenly, if he should have waited a few days, rather than letting the thought go straight to speech.

"We can talk about it later," he says hastily, pulling cartons out of the bag.

She stays still for a moment, hands resting on the pitcher she's managed to get onto the table. "No," she says softly. "No, that sounds—that sounds like a good use of time, actually."

"Really?" he wonders aloud, surprised.

She smiles, that smile that lights up her face, crinkles her eyes, softens her into this glorious vision he can't help but gravitate toward. She meets him halfway, arching up onto the balls of her feet to find his mouth, her hands cradling his face, gentle and tender.

"Thank you, Rick," she says as she pulls away, finding his eyes with hers, so full of love and gratitude that he can't help but lean in again to steal another kiss.

His mother coughs behind them and he sighs into her mouth before stepping away as she blushes. "You sure you want in on this?"

She positively beams at him and he loses his breath. Her eyes sparkle and he knows she's pleased, with him, his reaction, his mother. "Definitely," she whispers, before she slips away from him to join his mother at the table.

He follows slowly, watching them as they chat and serve food, leaving him to sit at the head of the table on either side of them. They're missing Alexis, but she'll be there tomorrow. Kate looks up as he sits down, overwhelmed. Because, even though he knows that she's there to stay, that they're safe, that it's real, the image of the two of them sitting at the table, family, socks him in the gut. Socks him hard and fast and pushes his heart into his throat.

"You okay?" she asks as she dumps as few spare ribs out of the carton and onto his plate, eyes searching his face.

"Yeah," he replies, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I am."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Still rockin' student rate tickets at Broadway shows.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5:<strong>

A bang outside startles him awake. He jerks upright, sluggishly alert, poised to jump out of the bed and protect them from some unknown attacker, until the yelling starts. Some lothario's brought home the wrong girl, unwilling to be lured up to his place to look at his collection. They're screeching at each other and he feels his heart rate slow down.

He can't remember the dream he was having, but the bang had come at the wrong time. He glances toward Kate and finds her staring up at him, eyes wide with exhaustion and concern.

"Rick?" she asks, her voice rough.

"Just, uh," he says and shakes his head. "Slam woke me up. I'll close the window."

"No," she protests softly, laying her hand on his stomach, her skin warm against his. "Lie back down."

He sighs and does as he's told, stiffly arranging himself under the sheets. Her hand smooths over his chest, bare fingers against bare skin, soothing him until he relaxes. She curls closer, her head resting on her arm as she scoots to share his pillow. Her fingers comb through his hair as she stares at him through heavily-lidded eyes.

He feels his heart rate slowing as he watches her, feels the latent panic recede to wait somewhere else, somewhere beyond the reaches of his sleep-addled mind.

"You okay?"

He nods quickly, but she doesn't believe him, and he's not sure he believes himself. "Was just loud," he offers feebly.

"You're still on high alert," she concludes, bringing her free hand to rest against his heart.

He closes his eyes and places his hand on top of hers, feeling her fingers work their way between his. "Yeah," he says on a slow exhale.

"How can I help you come down?"

He blinks and meets her gaze, confused. He doesn't know how to get rid of the knee-jerk reactions, doesn't know how to calm his racing heart. It's not PTSD; he hasn't been shot. But she has, and sometimes it seems like he knows her symptoms, understands the way her palms sweat, the way her fingers tremble, the over-taxed beat of her heart when a noise is just too loud, a reflection a little too sharp, a gun a tad too close.

"I…don't know," he admits. "Time?"

She nods and gently scrapes her nails along his scalp. "Time helps. Security too. Proof."

He brings their hands to his lips, kissing her pulse, where blood pumps through her live body. "Proof," he mumbles against her skin.

She moves closer, molding her body along his side, her knee resting on his thigh as she aligns them together. "It'll get better," she promises, smiling as he slides his arm under her head. She curls hers up beneath her chin and presses a kiss to his chest, her head a pleasant weight against his bicep.

"Sorry I woke you," he whispers as they settle in, the light breeze from outside blowing the curtains in the glow from the streetlights below.

She shakes her head and snuggles closer. "Don't be."

He sighs and bends to press his lips to her forehead, his chest easing at the breath she lets out at his touch. "Sweet dreams."

He feels her smile as her fingers come to brush over his cheek. "You too."

(…)

He wakes again to the scent of pancakes, cracking an eye open to the beautiful vision of his girlfriend holding a tray chock full of breakfast delight.

He blinks up at her, taking in her easy smile and the tee shirt that falls off her thin shoulder. Her eyes soften at what must be a completely besotted look plastered over his slap-happy face. "Scoot," she commands.

He shuffles over, pulling himself up to sit against the pillows as she deposits the tray on his lap, walking around the bed to get in beside him. He positions the tray over their thighs, her body pulled flush with his.

"You made me breakfast," he says, leaning down to kiss her temple.

She smiles and hands him a fork. "We really need to shop."

"This was the last of everything, huh?"

She nods and takes a sip from her mug of coffee. He has a matching one, black with a red pen to match the red handgun on hers. He hadn't meant for her to find those without him. But the look she sends him, eyebrow raised, lips quirked around the rim of the mug, tells him that she thinks he's ridiculous and a little cute. He'll take it.

"You had just enough eggs, but the cheese is bad and so was the milk," she explains as he cuts into a pancake.

"So what did you use instead of milk?" he asks, stalling the fork on the way to his mouth.

"Your mother's soy. It basically never goes bad."

He stares at the piece of pancake. How bad can it be?

"Huh," he mumbles as he chews, the extra hint of vanilla and sugar not all together unpleasant. "Might like these more than normal," he decides, taking a moment to douse his stack in syrup.

She frowns and takes the little pitcher from him, pouring a sadly small amount of sticky deliciousness onto her own stack. "You're such a child," she says on a laugh as he pouts at her.

"They're no good without the syrup."

"I did use some," she protests, cutting into her own breakfast. "Not all of us still have the sweet tooth of a five-year-old."

"Pity," he says around another mouthful. "These are good."

"Chew, Castle," she sighs. But she looks pleased, a little proud, even.

"Thank you," he says as he swallows. "This is great. But you didn't need to cook."

She shakes her head and reaches out to steal a piece of bacon off his plate. He goes to grab it back, aghast, until he realizes she didn't make any for herself.

"I like cooking," she offers as she munches on the strip. She should have made some for herself. She needs the fat. "It's relaxing."

"And you needed to relax," he concludes, slipping his arm around her shoulders, deciding that he can forgo the knife in lieu of touching her, this woman who made him breakfast because she was on edge and, presumably, unwilling to wake him. Or to share, a small part of his brain interjects.

She shrugs, jostling his arm, and doesn't meet his eyes. "I guess."

"Hey," he prompts, waiting until she brings her face to meet his. "You can always wake me."

She smiles a bit sadly and reaches up to brush the hair from his forehead. It's getting a little long and floppy; he hasn't had time to get it cut. "You didn't sleep well."

"Still," he insists, kissing her thumb as her hand comes to cup his cheek. "You can always wake me."

She opens her mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it, and nods instead. "I'll try to remember that."

He smiles. Hopefully someday, she won't have to try. "Good."

They munch in silence, listening to the sounds of morning traffic out the window and whatever station Kate left on in the kitchen. He takes a sip of coffee and can't help but laugh, tasting the cinnamon and vanilla.

"Like it?" she asks, watching as he drinks enthusiastically.

"It's great. In the coffee grounds?"

"The cinnamon," she replies, taking her own sip. "Vanilla after."

"You're so creative." She scoffs and nudges his shoulder, but he's undeterred. "Really. I might just let you get the coffee from now on."

"Kind of defeats your purpose, doesn't it?" she tosses back.

They both know he's worth a hell of a lot more to her than coffee, especially at the station. Though, maybe he's worth most here, if the look behind her teasing gaze is anything to go by.

"I'm wounded," he groans, playing along as she laughs.

"You'll survive."

"I'm not sure. You might have to make it up to me," he moans, letting himself sag back into the pillows, his free arm thrown over his face.

He feels her shifting and cracks an eye open to watch as she stands and lifts the tray off the bed, leaning down to place it by the door. He doesn't miss her grimace of pain on the way back up, nor the way her hand brushes over her scar as she saunters back to the bed, all allure and sass. But he's worried now.

"How might I make it up to you, soothe your wounded ego?" she purrs, sliding across the bed to hover over him.

He wants to play along, wants to let her make him forget with her mouth, her tongue, her gorgeous body beneath his clothes, but he can't.

"Your ribs okay?" he asks, and he's sure she can hear the resignation in his voice.

Her smile drops and she sighs, allowing her head to fall forward onto his shoulder, her forehead pressed against his collar bone. "They're fine," she mumbles.

"You're sure?" he presses onward, ignoring the stiffness of her back and the huff she lets out against his skin.

"Just sore," she bites out, not pissed but not pleased either.

"Lemme get a look?"

She pulls back and frowns at him, kneeling with a knee on either side of his thighs. "You were going to anyway," she tells him, going for light, but he can tell that she's put off by his worry.

"Good to know," he says gently. "But I meant in the bathroom. I just want to make sure, then you can feel free to ravish me."

"Not sure if I'm going to want to," she mutters, climbing from the bed to walk into the bathroom, tossing the door open so it bangs lightly against the wall.

He sighs and follows her, skin prickling at the chill of the air conditioning. They need to turn it down. But first he needs to get a look at her ribs.

He walks up behind her where she's standing in front of the mirrors over the sink, lip pulled between her teeth, her arms crossed over her chest. Her toes curl against the linoleum, and he decides that after he looks at her ribs, they're taking a hot shower.

"Can you get up on the counter?" he asks, running his hands down her arms, feeling the goose bumps beneath his finger tips.

She meets his eyes in the mirror and he catches a flash of insecurity. "I…probably not," she says quietly.

He nods and leans around to press a kiss to her cheek. "Okay."

He steps back and scoots to her side, reaching to take her hands and lead her over to the tub, where he sits down on the edge. He releases her hands to place his on her waist, rubbing circles against the fabric of his shirt as she looks down at him.

"Just do it," she lets out, shaking her head as he nods and gently lifts the shirt up, helping her tug it off.

He bolsters his hands on her hips and peers at her ribs, gently turning her to the side so he can see the area around her scar. The skin's faintly purple, like she's bruised just below the surface. He runs a gentle hand over her skin and feels the heat of her muscles beneath his hand, too hot.

"Deep bruising," he tells her, leaning forward to press his lips to the scar. "Probably a little swelling too."

She nods above him and places a hand over his, squeezing. He looks up as she turns back to face him, eyes searching to find his. "Nothing big," she says softly.

"You're absolutely sure you don't need to get checked out?"

She nods and bends down with only a small pant to find his lips. He stands slowly, helping her straighten out so she's not in pain, bending himself instead. Her chest presses into his and he wraps his arms around her as she smooths her tongue over his bottom lip before nipping at him.

She shivers as he runs his fingers up her back to tangle in her hair and he smiles against her lips. "Let's take a shower."

"Thought I was supposed to ravish you," she argues, even as she lets him walk them back toward the shower, releasing her with one hand to flip the water on.

"After," he promises, like he'd ever turn it down. He'll just have to be gentle. They've had their fast and furious, and he knows they'll have it again, but he's rather enjoying the slow, meaningful, relieved thing they've got going on.

She breaks away from his mouth to push her fingers into the waist band of his boxers, latching onto his neck as they push the fabric down and he steps out. He repeats her actions with a slight stumble, bending to lave at her jumping pulse as she shimmies out of her boxers, stepping nimbly back from him to lure him into the shower with her.

"What's wrong with right here?" she whispers as she reaches up on her tip toes to press their lips together.

"Right here what?" he asks, pulling back to get a look at her, hair slick with water that glistens as it slides down her naked body.

"Ravish you here," she says, meeting his eyes, her own wide and dark and wanting.

"You…I," he stammers as she runs her fingers up his chest to settle behind his neck. "Your ribs."

She growls and presses herself flush with his body, soft curves and jutting angles aligning against him until he can feel every blissful inch of her. "Take off the damn kid gloves, Rick."

(…)

"Kate, broccoli or green beans?" he calls over the aisle, catching her eye as she inspects a potato.

"Broccoli," she says, placing the potato in a bag. "You thinking fries or baked?"

"Alexis will say baked, but she prefers fries."

Kate laughs and grabs another two, tossing them into the bag before making her way back to meet him. Her steps are sure and steady and she looks radiant, hair pulled back in a braid, body limber, eyes full, smile wide. He's still watching to make sure she's not in pain, to catch a grimace, a groan, a twitch, but there's nothing to see.

He worries that he pushed too far, was too rough, hurt her somehow, though she was just as enthusiastic, more than him even. He feels ravished, knows there's a hickey on his clavicle he's hiding with his dress shirt. She has one on the underside of her left breast, but there's no way anyone but him will be seeing it.

She grins as she places her bag into the basket, catching him in the act of reliving just how she got that hickey.

"You okay there?" she asks, playful as she reaches up to smooth his collar. "You look a little hot."

"I'll show you hot," he mutters, smiling. "You?"

She sighs but smiles back, nodding. "Just fine. Very relaxed," she adds, her voice an octave deeper, her eyes half lidded for a moment.

"You're evil," he decides, taking her hand as they wind through the small grocery, headed for the meat section.

"You love it," she tosses back, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

He grins and places a smacking kiss to her cheek that has her rolling her eyes at him. He loves having her back, his playful, bright-eyed Kate. He knows it'll be hit or miss—that they're going to swing back and forth. But this, with her by his side, helping him buy groceries for them, it fills him up, bolsters him against the difficult moments to come.

"What else do we need?" he asks, delighting in the pronoun.

"Chicken, panko, eggs ,and cheese," she rattles off, guiding him toward the organic meats. He's never cared much, but apparently, when she actually cooks, Kate likes healthy, after breakfast at least.

"You know this recipe by heart?" he wonders again as she grabs a six-pack of boneless chicken breasts. "And you've never made it for me?"

She spins around and deposits the chicken in the basket, giving him a look. "My opportunities to cook for you have been few and far between," she says, her gaze half challenging, half regretful.

He gives her a soft smile. "No harm, no foul. Fowl, get it?" he jokes, bumping her hip as they move toward the dairy aisle.

"That's pathetic," she says, laughing despite herself.

He goes to retort, but his phone rings and she steps away, moving to peruse the cheeses as he fishes the device from his pocket.

"Hello?"

"Castle!" Lanie barks over the line.

He cringes and lowers the volume, trying to catch Kate's attention without calling out to her. "What's up, Lanie?"

"Where the hell is my girl?" she demands.

"What?" he asks, snagging Kate's hand as she returns to him to place two packages of fresh mozzarella in with everything else.

"Where the hell is Kate? She isn't answering her phone."

"Oh," he mumbles as Kate bites her lip, obviously able to hear her friend, pressed as she is to his side, her ear against his phone. She left her phone at home, hasn't touched it in a day, claiming that she wouldn't need it. "You, uh, haven't heard from her?"

The woman in question pokes him in the ribs just as Lanie snaps, "No!"

"Well, I, uh," he stammers, beseeching Kate to ride in and save the day. There hadn't been a moment to explain things to their friends—things even they didn't truly understand themselves. Kate stares back, equally at sea. Lanie's going to kill them.

"I, she's okay," he hedges as Kate nods.

"Hand her the phone," Lanie demands.

"She's not—"

"Give Beckett the phone or so help me God, Castle, I will perform your autopsy while you're still breathing."

He hands the phone over quickly, resisting the urge to simply shy away from Lanie's ire. Kate shakes her head and pats his arm as she takes the phone, bringing it slowly to her ear. Ha! She's intimidated too.

"Hi, Lanie," she says, her voice light.

"Katherine Beckett!" shrills out and Kate hastily turns down the volume.

"Yes, I'm…I told Javi to tell you—yes I'm with Castle." He waggles his eyebrows in time with her, "YES, that kind of with Castle."

Even with the volume down, he hears the shriek, quickly followed by a garbled reprimand. "Remind her that we've been traumatized recently. Cut us some slack," he stage whispers.

She pushes him away, her hand over his face as he laughs and leaves her with the basket to find the bread crumbs. He's not dumb enough to get in the way of girl chat, though he has a sinking suspicion that he'll get a call from either Espo or Ryan sometime soon, especially considering that things on the Esplanie front are leaning much more toward will-they, than won't-they.

He thinks it's kind of cute, in a tie-it-all-up kind of way, that their gang has paired off, even though Jenny's not officially part of the Precinct. Neither is he, he admits as he grabs two boxes of panko bread crumbs, impressed with himself that he was able to find them. He's not officially stationed at the Precinct, but he is a part of it. And he's her other half; her harried wave confirms it as he strolls back to meet her, still standing in front of the cheese, glaring at him to come faster.

"Yes, Lanie. He's right here. Be…Lanie. Be nice, okay?"

"Be nice?" he mouths, grinning as she hands the phone back to him.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," she smirks, pointing toward the eggs a ways down the aisle. He watches her saunter away as he brings the phone to his ear, unsure of what, exactly, he should be prepared for.

"How is she really?" Lanie asks, her voice low, normal, concerned.

It throws him, after the effusive response Kate got from her. "She's," he pauses, checks that she's far enough away. "She's hanging in there."

"PTSD?" Always matter-of-fact, that doctor.

"A little," he admits. "But nothing bad, just…jumpy. We both are," he tells her honestly.

"Understandable. But she's eating, sleeping?"

"Better than me."

Lanie clucks her tongue in his ear. "You okay, Castle?"

"I'm getting there," he says distractedly, watching as Kate reaches up for the eggs, her far hand over her side. "I'll be better when she is, I think."

Man, he has no filter today. "You're a good man."

"On my better days," he says lightly. "How you doing?"

"Me?" She laughs. "I'm good. I'm really good."

"Tell Javier I say hello."

"Only if you're ready for the big brother talk," she cautions, teasing him.

"Hey now. I think we're past that," he says hastily.

She laughs softly. "Oh, Castle, I think we're way past that now. You take good care of my girl."

"I will," he promises, just as Kate returns, her smile full, eyes sparkling, fully expecting him to be on the receiving end of a nice grilling from her best friend. He likes this better.

"Bye, Castle."

"Bye, Lanie."

"She read you the riot act?" Kate asks, gently placing the eggs in the basket as he hauls it into the crook of his elbow, pocketing his phone.

"Something like that," he agrees, taking her hand as she leads him toward the registers at the front of the store.

It's oddly empty for 2pm on a Tuesday, but he doesn't mind. It gives him the freedom to press butterfly kisses to her lips as they wait behind an elderly woman buying about a million cans of cat food. It gives him the freedom to revel in the normalcy, to let his guard down.

The street is a different matter, and he finds that he's tense beside her as they meander back toward the loft, a short, three block walk. But every sound is just a little too loud, every passing stranger a hair too close. He doesn't understand it, especially since she's showing no fear, talking animatedly about a trip shopping with her mother he desperately wishes he had all of his mind to attend to. He listens enough to remember, but has one eye and one ear on alert around them.

It's a problem. But there's no release, no way to work it off. He's not ready to tell her, worry her. She's already suspicious, what with his dreams and nightmares and preoccupation with the fact that she just can't stretch her arms over her head to grab the skillet in the upper cabinet without wincing.

"Buck up, Rick," she says lightly, leaning up to kiss his cheek as she moves around him to prep the chicken. "Alexis will be here in a few hours."

He smiles, warmed by the thought of his daughter and his mother and his…Kate, all together, with him, safe, happy, healthy. He watches as she cleans the chicken and lays the breasts out on a platter. He's been tasked with peeling potatoes, and he's diligently going through his second one.

"Have anything you want to do tomorrow?" he asks, visions of a lazy morning in bed swimming in his whirring mind's eye.

She goes still for a moment and then softens, turning to him with a sad smile. "I have an appointment with Dr. Burke."

"Oh," he says, nodding slowly. "Right. That's good."

She bobs her head. "Yeah."

They're silent for a few minutes. It's not awkward, but something about her therapist seems to settle reality back over the kitchen that's not truly a haven from the scope of trauma that makes up their lives.

"Do you—will you, uh," he pauses and reaches back to scratch at the nape of his neck, uncomfortable. "Do you think you'll be up for anything after that?"

She chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment as she washes her hands, drying them slowly before walking over to lay her hand on his bicep, stopping his progress on the third potato.

"I'll probably just want to hole up," she says, looking up at him hesitantly.

"Oh, well, we can do…that," he trails off, because her next move is clear.

"Just me," she says softly, apologetically. She shouldn't have to apologize for it.

Oh, but he doesn't want to let her go. Doesn't know that he can stand a full day away from her, not knowing, not feeling, not seeing proof of her alive and well and stable.

"Right," he says, going for understanding, easy.

She doesn't take it. "I just—some things are—" She sighs and places her palms on either side of his face, looking into his eyes, her gaze hard with purpose and strength she's pushing through to find the courage for whatever she's about to say. "My doing some of this alone doesn't mean I love you less."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Insert witty commentary on how I don't own Castle here.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6:<strong>

He makes such a valiant effort not to let it bother him.

He jokes his way through prepping the chicken, catching her in kisses and laughing as she teases him. He wants to make her comfortable, doesn't want her to feel guilt for taking care of herself. He wants, needs, to get a handle on his irrational self, especially since it seems like Kate is more and more together with every passing hour, while he feels like he's slowly falling apart.

It baffles him, that after over a year of fight, it's now that it hurts, stabs, claws at his innards and whacks at his brain. It's now that he goes on his highest alert, feels the crush of anxiety against his chest. Somewhere in the darker recesses of his mind, he remembers a therapist saying, "Sometimes the mind waits for peace before it feels." It was probably after his first divorce, when six months out, he suffered a few months of depression he tried to hide in liquor and police horses.

But this trumps anything he's dealt with—this ache for her, for her safety, for her proximity, a proof of life.

"Castle?" she prompts as he registers the earlier bang of the door.

There's the sound of soft laughter behind him. He turns and finds his daughter standing across from him, the counter between them, her arm wrapped around Kate's waist, smiles on their faces.

"Alexis!" he exclaims, feeling calm surge back over him, over the loft. "You're here."

"Been here for a few minutes, actually," she says. Kate squeezes the girl's shoulders.

"Kept calling you, but you were a little out of it," his girlfriend explains as he rounds the counter to crush his kid to his chest in a bear hug that has her giggling and Kate regarding them with that open smile that crinkles her eyes.

"She called you muffin," Alexis mumbles into his shoulder. "You okay?"

Castle blinks and stares at Kate, who's laughing at him, her hand over her mouth as she wanders around the counter to check the chicken. They made chicken parm-style breasts, but with french fries and a zestier tomato sauce, with a side of broccoli. It's different, but he knows they're all things Alexis loves, and making the chicken with Kate's mother's recipe sealed the deal.

"I'm fine," he tells his daughter, almost convinced, for the moment, that he's not lying. "The bigger question is how are you?"

Alexis grins as they step apart, following Kate to the kitchen. "I'm doing really well. Tomorrow's my class-free day, so I'm relaxed. Wrote a paper this afternoon too," she says as she takes the bowl of fries from Kate.

"I remember class free days," Kate says with a smile as she slides the chicken onto a serving platter. "Anything planned?"

"An exciting day of studying." His daughter laughs. "But it'll be good, and there's a mixer tomorrow night."

"Don't mix too much," he cautions. "College guys can be—" He trails off as Kate flashes him a look. "What?"

"Mix as much as you want, keep your head on your shoulders, and don't let your dad do that," Kate tells his daughter. Alexis positively beams at her and he finds that it's difficult to be annoyed with the woman.

"College guys are jerks," he protests. "I was."

"Not every college boy will be like you," Kate tosses back. He pouts at her and Alexis watches with interest. "Though we can hope that they grow up to be like your father," she adds as they sit down.

Alexis nods sagely and he stares at Kate, dumbfounded. She swings her head back to meet his gaze and he watches as her cheeks flush lightly before she schools her features, shutters the love burning in her eyes.

"Want to make sure they have faster reflexes though," she says and he comes back just in time to watch the girls take the two pieces of chicken he coveted all afternoon. Damn.

"Perhaps they can all be as gracious as I am, instead," he says as he regretfully grabs for the crispier piece, taking fries as Kate passes them around the corner of the table. He's at the head with them on either side again, and can't really remember when that became commonplace.

Kate shrugs, unimpressed and laughs with his daughter. He remembers when the two of them made up, even if he can't remember when this warm feeling of family crept in. It was about a week after the blowout, when they had both calmed down enough to stay in the same room at an apartment. They made it two days alone before he slunk back to the precinct and she took the coffee he offered. Six days after that, she showed up at his place, asking to talk.

He had to leave her alone for a phone call, and he came back to find the two of them curled on the couch, knees pulled up, talking—having the conversation he and she should have had a long time ago, about risk and reward and love and duty.

They didn't leave each other smiling. His daughter was pensive and Kate withdrawn, but as they ironed through, fought, yelled, made up, she and his daughter did the same, silently, in looks and gestures and breakfasts. And somewhere along the way, they'd repaired a broken relationship that never really had the chance to start.

Of course, now, as he listens to them tease him, he sees the darker side—the side where he never wins and is outnumbered by his daughter, his lover, and his mother, who bursts in, late as usual, and boisterous as ever. But he takes it, revels in it as they gang up on him, and each other. He loves them all, so differently, so ardently. His daughter who is his world, his mother who shaped the world he inhabits, and his Kate, who settles somewhere in between, who walks along side him now, free and easy.

"Are you and Richard doing anything exciting tomorrow?" his mother asks as they take seconds. He does appreciate that all three of his women have no shame when it comes to food.

"Actually, I have some things I have to take care of," Kate says softly. His stomach plummets. He'd almost forgotten, wrapped up in his family and laughter. "It'll give him some time to write. I know he hasn't been lately."

He shakes his head, unconcerned. How can deadlines and words compare to this? How could he possibly have given any time for the world in his head, when his muse, his real life inspiration, needed him? There's no contest.

"Are you behind, Dad?" Alexis asks carefully.

Kate shoots him an apologetic glance and he meets her eyes, no reproach given. "A bit, but nothing serious."

Kate's eyes narrow, because they both know that's a lie. He hasn't written in nearly two months; he's more than seriously behind. But how could he have done it differently?

"Nothing a couple caffeine binges can't fix," Alexis offers, and he smiles, tries to make it stretch to his eyes, believable. It takes so little to crack the shell of this fragile thing they're trying to build up.

Her therapy will do it for her, will plunge inside and break the calm surface for the maelstrom beneath. He's just cracking more slowly, and whatever's under this peace is something he honestly has no desire to figure out.

"And you, young lady?" his mother diverts, saving him from trying to worm his way back to normal conversation. "Any exciting developments?"

Alexis shoots him a look and then glances at Kate, who smiles, invested in the promise of progress on something he's obviously not been told. "Well," his daughter hedges. "Graham, uh," she looks back at her dad.

"Go on," he sighs, hunkering in for the boy story he figures he'll have to pull out of Kate. How she knows is beyond him. Though, there were a few times she was attached to her phone recently that had nothing to do with the case. How has he not pestered her about it more?

Her hand finds his on the table top as Alexis goes on about the cute kid from her sociology class, and the study session that turned into a normal thing, over coffee. His daughter's dating, actually dating, and man, it scares the crap out of him.

"Just make sure you—" Kate's nails on his palm cut him off and he clams up, glaring at her. It's been a while since someone's shut him up about his kid. Never, actually—no one's every questioned how he deals with Alexis.

But his daughter looks so hopeful, so full of anticipation and the giddy feeling of first collegiate love; he can't begrudge Kate. He can't be mad for his daughter's full smile, for the lightness of her face and posture—not just for the boy, but for the safety of her father and his girlfriend, for the end of a conflict that darkened even her life.

"Make sure you have a good time, and a phone on you," he says. Kate rolls her eyes, but Alexis nods eagerly.

"Of course. I'm not stupid," she says, laughing as Kate shakes her head at his huff. "You're cute, dad."

He's not cute. He's protective. So different. "Thanks," he mumbles as the other three laugh. Even though he's the butt of a joke, sick as it is, it's comforting to hear them laughing at him, over something so normal, so banal as his paternalistic instincts.

"Would," Alexis takes a sip of water, her cheeks faintly pink as she meets Kate's eyes. "Would you help me pick out a dress for the mixer after dinner?"

Kate smiles and nods, squeezing his hand before reaching out to take a few more fries. He realizes he hasn't eaten all that much, but doesn't mind. Is this their life now? Family dinners, picking out dresses, making love all over the place, shopping together? The calm after the storm—how long does it last?

Kate stands with Alexis—he's missed something—and they begin clearing as his mother follows, apologizing for her quick stop over before another dinner date. He watches them go, sees Alexis hug her Gram, kiss her cheek, send her on her way. His mother pats Kate's cheek and comes over to kiss his, fulfilling the trifecta before she squeezes his shoulders and makes her way around him and out of the apartment.

The door slams shut and he startles, part surprise and part shock. It was loud. It's been so quiet. He's missed the greater part of this dinner he was so excited about. Kate shoos Alexis out of the room to go lay her dresses out for them and then walks over to him, stopping behind him, her hands falling to his shoulders.

"You are out of it," she tells him, massaging gently. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says automatically, but he's not really sure. "I'm…tired?"

He feels her lips against the back of his head, then her cheek, curled over him. "See if you can relax or something while Alexis and I do the girly stuff, 'kay?"

He nods and reaches back to squeeze one of her hands. She hums and then leaves him, walking up the stairs, calling out to Alexis, their conversation fading into the white noise of the city outside. He sits for a moment, dazed, and then does the dishes, trying to calm the increasingly fast beat of his heart.

His daughter's dating, his mother's off somewhere, his girlfriend is leaving him tomorrow for the day—for the night?—to see her therapist and then have some solitude. Solitude that will leave him alone in his apartment, with a laptop and a deadline and this aching feeling in his chest.

He leans back against the counter, antsy. He needs an outlet for this, and writing's just not going to cut it this time. He feels lit up, keyed up, full of energy, anxiety, fear, relief; he's not used to having so many names for his feelings. He understands love, need, want—the things he feels for the women in his life, for his friends, for his writing. But fear? Anxiety? Grief for living? Those he doesn't understand.

He's on his way up the stairs before he really understands it, past the girls, who are giggling behind the mostly closed door to Alexis' bedroom. He finds himself in the converted guest room, now filled with a treadmill and standing punching bag, weights, a jump rope, a stretching mat. He can't remember if he ever showed it to Kate, if he ever explained. Doesn't really matter now.

He's in his work-out clothes and swinging one-handedly at the bag before he knows it, rearing back to kick with uncovered feet. He beats the crap out of the thing, sweating and grunting, and damn, it feels good. Release—finally, he can punch that slime bag repeatedly, can pummel him into ground, pound on him until he dies, over and over. It's frenzied and primal and he finds that his vision is actually red around the edges, blurry. Maybe he's crying? That doesn't make much sense.

The gasp at the doorway does, and he pauses to catch the shocked eyes of his daughter. Alexis probably didn't even know he'd changed the room at all, hasn't put the pieces together.

"Dad?" she asks quietly as he feels a stitch coming on in his side. They did just eat. Man, he's stupid.

"I'm good, Pumpkin," he assures her. He does feel better, more like himself, though he hardly looks it now.

"Daddy," she says again, moving into the room toward him, hesitant, her blue eyes so wide and innocent, like when she was a baby, full of naiveté he never wants her to lose. "I…"

"I'm sweaty," he protests as she wraps her arms around him, her head pillowed on his wet chest.

"Don't care," she mumbles, her hands in fists in his loose tank top.

"I'm okay, Alexis," he promises, carding his good hand through her hair. "Really."

"Kate told me a little," she whispers. "It sounds—I'm so glad you're okay."

He hugs her tighter, presses her into his chest as she breathes shakily against his shoulder. "We're okay. I'm okay. It'll take a little time, but," he trails off as he spots Kate in the doorway, leaning her hip against the wood, regarding them sadly.

"You promise?" Alexis asks, pulling back to look up at him.

"I do," he tells her, leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead.

She smiles softly and nods. "I have to get back to school. Paige needs help with a project and we're going to skype while she works on it."

He tries to give her a reassuring smile, full of confidence, but he thinks he comes off as hopeful himself, if the unsure bite of her lip is anything to go by. "Have fun."

She nods again and then turns and walks to the doorway, pulling Kate in for a similar hug. His girlfriend's eyes go wide, but she smiles and rests her cheek on his daughter's head for a moment before they pull apart, having some silent conversation before Alexis trots away.

Kate turns to him and they stare at each other for a long pause. His breath is coming back in even pants now and he can feel the sweat drying on his neck, his arms. He flexes his taped up left hand, the right hanging loosely by his side.

"I hope you weren't punching with your injured one," she says as she pushes off from the doorway and walks to him on quiet, bare feet.

He shakes his head and raises his hand for her to inspect. "Just the left."

"Had the sudden urge to beat something up?" She stops in front of him, taking his extended hand in hers, her grip gentle, her body soft and quiet before him.

"Just needed," he takes a breath and meets her eyes, at a rare loss for words.

"Release?" she provides, smiling at him. "Did it help?"

He nods slowly. "It did, yeah."

"Whose face?"

He feels himself smile. "Johnson's, but a bit of McDavit's also."

"I'd go for McDavit," she continues, stepping forward to wind a hand up to the nape of his neck. "Johnson's dead."

"But see, you killed him—kind of cathartic. I just got a punch in, and then not much else. So I want…" he pauses. "Is it terrible that I'm not as—that McDavit's getting what's coming to him, but he didn't—" He breaks off and sighs, can't find the words to explain.

"McDavit sat in a chair and directed. Johnson put a bullet in my chest," she says, her voice a whisper in the room, against his hand where she's cradled it to her chin.

"Yeah," he agrees, tugging her closer, wanting to feel her breath on his neck, her body pressed into his, even if he is getting her all sweaty. Maybe she'll help him wash off.

"This gonna be enough?" she asks, her lips at his jugular, warm breath infusing his skin, pumping through his veins.

"Enough?"

"I have a therapist," she continues, keeping them entwined. He understands. He can completely understand not wanting to look at him for this. "Maybe you should too."

He shakes his head, squeezes her. "I just need time."

"Rick," she sighs, pulling back to meet his eyes. "Don't play it down. The door made you jump." She doesn't miss a thing.

"I'm just." He takes a step back and scrubs his good hand over his face. "It's been a really long year."

"It has," she agrees, soft, gentle, sad.

"It's catching up," he mumbles, massaging his injured hand. "But some exercise, seeing you, seeing my kid—I'll get there."

She watches him for a long moment, arms across her chest, hip canted as she searches his face. "Fine. But if you're still jumpy next week, come with me? I'm sure Burke would see you, or let us do a joint session."

He can't believe that she's just invited him to her therapy sessions. She's been open, they've talked, they've shared, but this—this is more. This is everything. This is commitment, and he hauls her back into his chest, laughing as they come together too quickly, bouncing, a little painful and a little awkward.

"Jeez," she huffs against him, laughing with him. "You done here?"

He looks at the bag and then down at the woman in his arms, eager for a different release. "You wanna join me in a shower?"

She pulls back and fuses her mouth to his in answer and he crowds her back into the standing bag. It jostles with them, hardly sturdy, but far from falling, soft against her bruised back. She moans into the kiss and he finds purchase for his hands on her waist, her leg wrapped around his thigh, her hands below his shirt before his mind even catches up.

"So, sweaty man is a turn on?" he mumbles as he moves from her lips to the curve of her pale throat.

"Shut up," she growls, her voice tinged with laughter as she grips at his shoulders.

"You like me all cave man," he crows. She tugs on his hair, but it just spurs him on. "Would sparring get you all riled up?" he wonders, slipping his hands beneath her shirt.

"You can fight me, or you can f—" he attacks her mouth, shocked and thrilled by her words and her tone and that thing she's doing along the back of his leg.

"Bedroom," she pants, but they're already falling to the padded floor around the punching bag. "Or here."

"Here. Definitely here."

(…)

"You're not going to let me touch you when we go back to work, are you?" he asks as they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling of the work out room. The rubber mats are surprisingly giving and comfortable, and bouncy. He hadn't imagined this particular work out here, but man, he should send that company a donation.

"You've touched me before," she says lazily, turning her head to meet his eyes, their hands twined between their naked bodies. "I seem to recall a particular moment in a closet that was interrupted."

"Don't remind me," he groans. The look on Perlmutter's face is seared into his brain. It's funny, there's no doubt, but creepy. He's about the last person he wants to have an image of them, even if they weren't all that close to indecent.

"So no, I'm not going to forbid you from touching me."

He smiles and scoots over to find her lips in a light kiss. "So I can kiss you?"

"Sometimes."

"I can hold your hand?"

"If you need to."

"I can hug you?"

She softens and squeezes his hand. "Yeah, Castle. You can hug me."

He grins and raises their hands to brush his lips over her curled fingers. "In front of Gates?"

"Don't push it," she huffs. "I don't know where she stands on you, now."

"She, well, she nodded at me, you know, in that way she does."

"We'd just solved my mom's case," Kate argues. "So, yeah, but I meant—once this gets out."

"Ah," he replies. "Think it'll be a problem?"

She considers him and he makes a valiant effort to keep his eyes up rather than falling to peruse her gorgeous figure, laid bare in the soft light from the lamps. Harsh lights just make him manic when he's working out—the dimmer, lighter yellow keeps him focused.

"Might be. You know the hazing from the boys will probably trump anything she can lay down."

He laughs softly. "Probably. But she's…will it be a problem, like, a legal issue?"

Kate purses her lips, her forehead wrinkling in thought. He figures they both would have thought about it before now, if there'd been any time at all. "I—there are other couples, and they're cautioned against it, but it happens."

"But I'm not actually part of the force," he supplies.

"Yeah," she agrees. "But I want you there," she adds, curling onto her side so she can reach out and stroke across his chest. "And she'll have one pissed off detective on her hands if she kicks you out for it."

"I certainly wouldn't want to cross you," he says, breathless as her hand wanders lower, teasing his belly button, the side of his hip. "Kate," he groans.

"Gotta stock up," she murmurs, her lips finding his chest, working upward.

He tugs on her until they're pressed together, her sprawled out over his chest, both of them sweaty and tired. "You're sure?" he asks, inanely hoping that she'll decide she wants him around tomorrow.

She nods, smoothing a finger down his cheek. "I am. But you can have me back on Thursday."

"Tomorrow night too?" He tries, he does, to keep his voice even. But the look in her eyes says he fails. "Sorry," he adds, trying to get the guilt off her face, and that other thing that looks suspiciously like shame. "I'll deal. I'm okay."

She sighs and he bends to kiss her forehead, her side still overly hot beneath his hand. One of her hands comes to curl over his, pressing them into her scar, pressure, promise.

"You're coming with me to Burke next week," she declares, squeezing his hand.

"Kate," he protests.

"No questions, Castle," she says, her eyes flashing. "We're fixing this."

"There's nothing to fix!"

She shakes her head, presses closer, her lips to his jaw, eyes hidden from his. "I need to be able to leave and not feel like I'm abandoning you," she mumbles, her voice low, insecure, strong—a combination that flummoxes him and strangles his heart.

"No, Kate, you're not—it's not you," he assures her. It's him.

"I know," she says, pulling back to meet his eyes. "It's not you either."

It tears at his throat, but he pushes it out, needs to make her see. "It is."

"It's what happened," she says softly. "And I wasn't there to…to help you when you were there for me." Her eyes are so full, so full of regrets and weight; he kisses her, tries to prove that she has nothing to make up for, that these are his demons not hers.

"Kate," he breathes as they break apart.

"But I'm here now," she asserts, rising up to stare down at him. "And I'm pulling you back up with me. Got it?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: No ownership, but I did help teach some awesome middle schoolers to play the steel drums.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7:<strong>

"Hey," he murmurs, running his hand over her sweat-matted hair, smiling as she blinks up at him.

"Hi," she rasps, reaching out a heavy hand to cup his cheek. "How long s'I out?"

He laughs and bends forward to press his lips to her forehead, careful of the light weight in his arms. "'Bout an hour."

"Gimme," she slurs, slowly propping herself up in the bed, hands extended, fingers curling.

"I told you she's bossy," he whispers to the tiny baby, passing her carefully to his exhausted wife. He tries to keep his eyes on his daughter, but he finds himself drawn to Kate instead, to the blinding, brilliant smile that ignites her face at the sight of the pink, squirming bundle.

"Don't listen to daddy," she coos, bending to kiss her daughter's downy head. "I'm not bossy. I'm just right."

"A subtle distinction I think might be too advanced for five hours," he says, laughing as she tears her gaze away to meet his eyes. "You're glowing."

"I'm a mess, but thank you," she whispers, leaning into him as he arches over the bed, a hand on the headboard behind her, his other on the retractable arm. They turn to look back down at the baby, little blue eyes searching up at them, her mouth open in a small, silent, 'o.'

"Hey, beautiful," Kate says softly. "Finally awake for momma, huh?"

"She woke up about twenty minutes ago, quiet, staring around. She looks at everything," he tells her, still completely blindsided by the wisdom in his daughter's tiny eyes, the recognition as he talked to her, like she knows him already. He's probably projecting, but he believes it.

"You're a smarty already," Kate tells the little girl, a finger stroking down the tiny cheek. "Gonna be like your big sister."

"She's going to be so upset she missed it," he says, wishing that he could have both his girls here. Alexis is on her way back from California, from the summer Masters research program she did at Stanford. She begged Kate to wait, her cheek on her stomach, instructing her little sister to come only once she'd gotten back.

Seems little Imogen isn't good at taking direction. But Alexis will be thrilled either way. She'll touch down to fourteen messages, from both of them—one riddled with shrieking as Kate went through her last few contractions before birth. He hopes it doesn't ward his kid off of having children, a long long time from now.

"But she can take Im for a few hours, let us sleep before we go home," Kate assures him, her eyes tracking her daughter's as the little blue ones roam around, taking in that short distance before things go fuzzy.

"You ready?" he asks, brushing the hair off of her face.

"I hate hospitals," she says, nodding vigorously, her eyes still glued to their daughter's. "But this was worth it."

(…)

He jerks awake, neck protesting angrily. He fell asleep in his desk chair, his laptop precariously resting on his thighs where his legs are propped up on the desk. He's lucky it didn't fall. He hasn't backed up the four chapters he managed to churn out. They're probably crap, but they're something at least, and Gina will have to deal.

They did keep him occupied. He's been deep into it ever since Kate left, kissing his cheek before quietly slipping out of his office and out of his loft. It got silent and still and he couldn't deal with it, so he lost himself, succumbed to an alternate reality and escaped there.

It's dark now, and he doesn't remember the light fading. He also doesn't think he's eaten, so he hauls himself up, groaning, since there's no one to hear him in his pathetic age. He's still sore from the take-down, and there's a lingering ache that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with Kate. That ache he likes, relishes, even. Can't regret the activities that strained him that way.

He tiredly makes a ham sandwich. Kate must have gotten the deli meat. He doesn't remember picking it up.

Kate. Kate holding their baby daughter, Imogen, a fantasy, a dream, a vision. He takes a large gulp of milk and closes his eyes, tries to block it out. They haven't talked about the future. He knows they're for keeps, that much is certain; there can be no one else. But marriage, babies, pensions, rocking chairs? They haven't discussed it.

He's old. Things creak and crack. Sometimes he can't go more than a round. Then again, sometimes he can go as long as she can, his young, hot, beautiful girlfriend. He sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter, stretching out his legs. Kate's young enough for children. Kate's still so very young, and she'll want those things, he hopes. He wants them too. He'll be the dad who goes gray, who turns sixty when his kids turn twenty. He had Alexis young. It might be nice to have another one with wisdom behind him.

It might be nice to have another one with Kate beside him. His partner— someone to tag-team the midnight feedings, nightmares with little tears, potty training, diapers. It might be nice to do it right, to give his daughter, his son, a mother, a good mother. A mother who's motherless—he could give Kate that back, somewhat, a substitute, a bond.

It can't replace her mother, but he thinks it might help. He knows it would ease his heart. He's seen the way she's a balm for Alexis, the way the hugs and touches, conversation, soothe over nearly nineteen years of hurt. She's not her mother, but they're something special for each other, somewhere between mother and daughter and sisters, he thinks, strange as that is.

Maybe he could give her a daughter, give her a balm for her wound, give her what she gives to Alexis. But he doesn't know if she wants children, or marriage, or any of it. She may just want this, a life with him full of sex and laughter and freedom. She hasn't lived, not fully. She's been trapped by this thing since she was Alexis' age.

It staggers him and he falls heavily onto one of the stools. His daughter's age. She was his daughter's age. A few months of the care-free life Alexis leads—that's all she got. And then her world shattered, and she hasn't lived until now, hasn't been free of that weight until now.

He grinds his palms into his eyes, rubbing against the itch from too much screen and the sting of tears he's too strung out to fight. They have time. She's young, and it's not like his virility will die in a year, two even. The ultimate inequality—he can have children for life, while she really only safely has the next seven years, and that's pushing it.

But they could do a hell of a lot of living in a year or two, before even talking about it. So they won't be young parents, big deal. Then again, maybe she doesn't want kids. He really needs to have this conversation with her, not without her. Probably should think about a ring first.

Marriage. The word tugs at him and he rubs his fingers over his left hand, scraping over the empty place where he's worn two wedding rings already. Two too many—it hurts sometimes, to think that even if she's it, she doesn't get to be the only one. She wouldn't be the only Mrs. Castle.

He snorts and shakes his head. He can't see her taking his name. Then again, he doesn't know. Man, does he need to see her Dad about this? Would she kill him for that, or think he's sweet? Where's Alexis when he needs her? Hell, where's his mother? Even she might have clearer eyes for it.

He's still spinning stories, his mind still in overdrive from pushing through four chapters in five hours, then falling into a futuristic sleep filled with the scent of baby and the wide, grateful, full eyes of his girlfriend, wife, Kate. He stands abruptly and walks back into his office, pausing with his hands on his hips. He can't do more work, but it's only eight; it's early yet. He rubs at his neck, sore, and decides he can whittle away an hour in the shower.

Her absence is starting to get to him now, with the loft so still, so quiet around him. He clenches his fists and forces himself through and into the bathroom, denying himself the thought of curling up around her pillow. He's pathetic. He grabs his cell, can't help it, and brings it into the bathroom; but he won't use it. He promised.

The water's hot on his skin, stinging faintly over cuts that are almost healed, over the knuckles that don't seem to want to bend. He realizes the binge of writing probably wasn't great on them. She's got arnica for them around somewhere, brought it over after she took a fall a few weeks ago. It's finding it that will be the problem. The woman has the most disorganized sense of order he's ever seen. She knows where everything goes, but there's no reason to it—toothpaste with the feminine stuff, oranges by the chicken.

His cell rings and he nearly tangles himself up in the curtain trying to get to it. He stubs his toe on the way out and curses as he nabs a towel and dries his hand, picking up on the last ring before voicemail.

"Castle," he manages, rubbing his bruised toe against his shin, grimacing at himself, pink and splotchy in the mirror.

"Hey."

"Kate?" He watches his eyes grow wide as she sniffles. Sniffles. Shit.

"I…hey," she says quietly.

"What's wrong?" He's already stumbling out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, half soaked, searching for boxers as she breathes over the line.

"Did you get any writing done?" she asks, throwing him as he hops into his jeans.

"Yeah," he replies. "But Kate? What's the matter?"

She gives a watery laugh that does nothing to calm him down and hums a little. "Nothing's wrong," she assures him, though her voice is so far from reassuring. "You wrote?"

"Four chapters," he offers, pressing the speaker and dropping the phone to the bed to shrug into a tee shirt. He picks the phone back up but hasn't missed anything. Her silence is unnerving. "Are you…how was your appointment?" he asks carefully, running a hand through his wet, unmanageable hair.

"Good," She breathes. She sounds so strung out. But he can't ask, can't initiate. That she's called at all is monumental. "Good, just…are you still writing?"

He stands there in his mess of a bedroom, their clothes strewn everywhere, the sheets a crumpled mess at the bottom of the bed. "No, I'm done for tonight."

There's more silence as he digs his bare feet into the wood. "Could you…" she sighs and then takes a shaking, deep breath. "Wanna come over?"

"Yes," he says, trying to make himself sound a bit less desperate, but he's already half out the door, shoes barely on his feet. He locks the door as an afterthought, throwing himself into the elevator that's already at his floor. "I'll be there in fifteen. Ten, if I'm lucky."

"There's no rush," she murmurs, but he can hear relief there, and so much exhaustion.

"On my way," he says, going for calm, collected, as the elevator pops open. They're speaking more without words than with them, but that's okay. "You wanna stay on the line with me?"

"No," she whispers. "I'm…I'm okay. Use your key?"

He blinks and throws his arm out for a taxi. Something's wrong and he'll definitely crash the car if he tries to drive. "Sure."

"See you soon," she mumbles, and the line goes dead.

He groans and slumps, tapping his foot as he waits for the cab to make its way to him. He yanks the door open and hops inside, nearly barking the address at the cabbie. The man shrugs and pulls off from the curb, gliding them through the light traffic.

He tries to tamp down the worry. She sounded fine—tired and strung out, but fine. She would have told him if she was in danger, would have used some sort of code, probably involving fruit or coffee or always or something. Maybe he does need to write more. Nikki and Rook could have a code like that, pineapples and danishes.

He shakes his head and focuses on calming the ever increasing pound of his heart. She's fine. He's fine. She just needs…him? She needs him. Somehow, twistedly, that is a balm to his panicked soul, and he relaxes against the worn leather, watching the city lights go by. She asked for him. She needs him.

He takes the stairs at her place, and were he not so intent on her, he'd be proud of the fact that he's not even winded four flights up as he fishes his keys from his pocket. He opens her door, careful to make some noise, but not too much. She hasn't been as jumpy as he has, but he knows the sounds still put her on edge, has felt her tense at the bangs on the street, or the way the refrigerator closes with a small slam.

"Kate?" he calls out, locking the door behind him. He pads through to the kitchen and stands at the threshold to the living room, waiting on her.

"In here," she calls out and he turns, heads for the office.

She's there, still in the tee shirt and jeans she left in, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair's back in a pony tail that's been toyed with. She looks so fragile, holding herself together as she stands in front of the murder board, the shutters thrown open.

"Hey," he says softly, moving to stand beside her, a foot or so between them.

"Hi," she offers, her eyes still glued to the board. "You're wet."

He chuckles and takes the hand she extends to him. "I was in the shower."

"You could have dried off," she mutters, finally turning to look at him, meeting his eyes with her red-rimmed ones. She's been crying, a lot, by the looks of it. Her beautiful face is puffy, pink, and her nose is red—rubbed raw by tissues.

He shrugs and tentatively reaches out to cup her cheek. "You okay?"

She blinks at him and begins to nod, before shaking her head and leaning forward into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. His hand moves to thread into her hair, finding the curve of her skull as she relaxes against him. He feels himself sinking around her, relief and gratitude and comfort enveloping him as her breath hits his neck.

"I need your help with something," she whispers into his skin.

"Anything," he promises. He'd probably assist in murder at this point. Though, his brain points out wryly, he's actually already done that—punched out her assassin before she shot him dead. It's a loss of life for which he'll never have regrets.

She pulls back and gives him the most tentative smile he's ever seen on her. "I want to take it down."

He pauses for a moment before it hits him. The murder board. She's ready. "Okay."

"And I couldn't," she takes a deep breath. "I couldn't do it. Hours, Castle. I've been here looking at it for hours."

Oh, Kate.

"And I thought—" she breaks off and huffs out a small sound, something like a laugh, maybe, or a breathy sob. "Maybe we can do it together. Maybe you need," she squeezes his shoulder. "Maybe you need it too."

"Oh, Kate," he breathes, staring at her. She waited for him, wants him to help her do this monumental thing, wants him there for her closure, wants to give him closure too. "Of course," he manages, his throat tight with things he can't make out, things he wants to say but are stuck behind his heavy, astounded heart.

(…)

"You're sure we should be here?" he asks as they ride the elevator back up. She's leaning heavily against his shoulder, eyes closed tight, breathing regulated and steady through a hell of a lot of effort. Putting that box back into the stacks made his eyes water. He can't imagine what it's done to her.

But he can't keep quiet. There's just something about walking into the bullpen at 11pm that feels off, especially when she's been put on leave for two weeks. "Kate," he presses.

"It's the Precinct, Castle, not Nam. We'll survive," she mumbles, picking herself up, her mask falling into place, but for the pinky she's left wrapped through his, a touchstone for them both. "I need my charger."

"We can both use mine," he protests as the doors open and she drags him out.

"Chill, seriously," she reprimands him, turning back to give him a look.

So he's being melodramatic. There's nothing new about that. Jeez, why are the boys still here?

"Beckett," Ryan exclaims, jumping up from the side of his desk, where he and Esposito were perched, staring at a partially full board. "And Castle. What are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, Ryan," Kate says on a small laugh, releasing his hand to root around in one of her drawers.

"He meant, Beckett, so good to see you," Esposito corrects as he joins his partner on the other side of Kate's desk. "Why are you here?"

"Forgot my phone charger," she mutters, opening another drawer. "Castle, did you move it?"

"Move your charger?" he asks, confused. "Seriously?"

She huffs and stands up, all confidence and irritation, no trace remaining of the woman who wept into his neck, curled on the floor of her apartment, her mother's case closed up in a file box.

"Yes ser—"

"Beckett," Gates barks out, her head popping out of the doorway to her office.

"Sir," she says immediately, caught.

"My office. Castle," she adds in greeting.

Kate gives them all a wary look and walks to the Captain's office. What's she even still doing here?

"Oh, I borrowed her charger," Ryan says suddenly, jetting back to his desk. "Damn."

"Dude," Esposito chides, taking it as Ryan tosses it over. He hands it to Castle, who rolls up the cord and sticks it in his pocket, where it creates a nicely unpleasant bulge that presses into his hip. Lovely.

"Why are you guys really here?" Ryan asks as he makes his way back over to them.

Castle attempts to look innocent, but really, they're detectives, and it's been a long day. "We were putting the case back in the stacks," he says softly.

Both of the boys deflate. "How is she?" Espo asks, concerned and brotherly, and Castle feels a swell of affection for the both of them.

"Okay," he says honestly. "Hurting but I think—" he breaks off to make sure Kate's not about to emerge and catch them in the act of talking about her. "I think she's getting there."

Ryan nods and glances at Esposito. "You taking care of her?"

"Kind of takes care of herself," he says and watches as the two guys share an amused look. "But I am, as much as she'll let me."

"Good," Esposito says, eyeing him shrewdly. "You better."

"Javi," Castle says, his voice gruffer than he means it to be. He really needs to figure out how to have a cool to find again. "You know I'll do everything I can, everything she'll let me do."

He stares him down for a moment before cracking a smile, reaching out to bump Ryan's fist. "You're a good guy, Castle," Ryan says with an approving nod. "We trust you."

"Man, I'd kind of hope so, by now," he says, laughing along with them, surprised and pleased and a little insulted by the vetting all at once.

"Well, it's not like this is new," Esposito concedes. "How new is it?"

"Lanie didn't tell you?" he asks, surprised. He immediately regrets it as Espo's eyes go wide and Ryan snickers into his hand.

"I'm gonna kill that woman," Espo seethes while Ryan laughs openly.

"I may not be on the job right now, but I can still run you up for threats, Esposito," Kate announces as they shift their attention back to her. Without her heels, it's so much harder to hear her coming.

And right now, she looks worn out. He doesn't see Gates watching, but he's not about to risk it, so he merely takes out the charger to show her. She smiles softly and reaches out to squeeze the boys' shoulders.

"Everything good, guys?"

"Very," Ryan says, shooting her a winning smile as Esposito knocks into her shoulder.

"Got a fresh one, but we're not allowed to discuss it with you," Espo adds.

"Not for a month," Kate sighs, meeting Castle's eyes. The ache in them has him searching his brain for a quick way to get them out. A month—something's not right.

Espo and Ryan look confused, but don't offer any commentary, merely squeezing her hands before sending her back to him. They make a few quick overtures, decide on a poker game in a few days, and then they're back in the elevator.

They're silent for a moment as the doors close and the car starts moving. "Kate?" he hedges, staying away, waiting for her move.

"Burke recommended that I take more than two weeks," she mumbles, not looking at him, eyes fixed on the moving numbers over the door. "I said I'd think on it but," she stops and lets out a low breath.

"Can he do that?" Castle wonders.

"I signed a waiver after the sniper case. I gave him permission. Just." She bites her lip and looks up at him.

"You just didn't think he'd need to use it," he finished for her. "Kate."

She shakes her head. "This was a good step," she asserts. "And I'll get back to it."

"I have no doubts," he assures her, stepping closer to take her hand.

"Gates might actually approve," she says, her voice so soft against the ring of the lobby as they step out.

"Approve?"

"Of us," she says, squeezing his hand.

"Really?" He's almost distracted enough to forget about the month. Clever woman, but he's not distracted enough. He'll humor her though. He's not about to push, not tonight.

"Nodded to you when she told me to make sure I took care of myself, got rest, relaxed."

He glances over to see her smiling softly, her eyes on their hands, their feet. "Imagine that."

She laughs and pulls him to the curb with her, bringing her hand up. "Don't have to," she tells him, meeting his eyes when she flags down a taxi.

He smiles and bends down slowly, grinning against her lips as she lifts up to meet him. "We'll have fun," he promises when they break apart.

She nods, eyes full and a little broken, but there with him. "I know."


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Quick, I need a funny way to say I don't own these characters.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8:<strong>

"Hamptons?"

She shakes her head, stretching her body out against his sheets, pale skin against blue cotton. The comforter's low on her back and she smiles tiredly at him. It's clear that neither of them are dropping into sleep any time soon.

"Why not?"

She sighs and runs her fingers down his forearm. "I don't feel like the beach?"

He nods understandingly. That's fair. Might have something to do with memories too. She mentioned, very briefly, something about their second summer a few weeks ago. He doesn't feel like pressing the issue tonight, but he'll want to know sometime.

"I guess Maui, Florida, and the south of France are out of the picture then too?"

She laughs lightly, rising up on her elbows. "Seriously?"

Why on earth would she think he's joking? "Yeah," he says, miffed. "You do realize I have the money to take you anywhere, right?"

She huffs and lets her body collapse, frowning at him. "I haven't asked you to splurge on a random trip."

Oh, he's really not up for this conversation. "We've got a month. I just thought we could go do something, get away," he says gently.

That earns him more of a glare. For what? Ah, he did sound a little patronizing. Damn. He's never had to deal with a woman refusing his offers of generosity. He's not used to fighting to spend money; he's used to getting them to stop taking, stop asking for so much. Meredith's shopping trips alone—

"Castle," she mumbles, her face turned into the pillow, her fingers tense on his forearm.

"Kate," he parrots, sliding down so they're face to face. "I wasn't exactly talking honeymoon, you know? Nothing that extravagant."

"Does the honeymoon have to be extravagant?" she wonders into the pillow. "I mean, it's not like you leave the room that much, right? Might as well splurge on the hotel, not the location."

His breath is caught in his chest. Did she really just…just talk about their honeymoon like that? She peeks an eye out and laughs at what must be a dumbfounded expression all over his slack-jawed face.

"Breathe, Castle," she chides, snaking a hand out to rest on his chest as she slowly curls onto her side to face him.

"You're a cruel woman," he tells her, meeting her eyes as she laughs at him.

She shrugs and he tangles his fingers with hers on his chest. "But really, we don't have to go anywhere."

He bobs his head, acknowledging that possibility. "But what will we do for a month?"

"I'm pretty sure you've got half a book or more to catch up on," she says lazily.

He groans and squeezes her hand. "Yeah," he concedes. "But I could work on that on a tropical island, or in a villa in Tuscany too."

"You cannot just get us a villa," she says, a cross of irritation and disbelief in her voice.

"Well, I mean, I can," he says, smiling hesitantly. "But if you don't want me to, I don't have to."

She purses her lips and nudges his leg with her toes. "Why are you so set on whisking me away?"

He tries to figure her out from her eyes, from the pull of her lip as it slides between her teeth, the way her fingers twitch in his. It's not like he's never offered to do this before. He's invited her out to his Hamptons house, joked about taking her to Mexico, made more than one overture proposing a world-wide cruise. He has money, lots and lots of money. And she deserves to be pampered and taken care of. It's not like he won't enjoy it either

"I just," he sighs, getting this mixed reading of affection and consternation from her that makes it difficult to find the right words. "We're benched for a month." The use of the pronoun gets him a small smile. "And I thought, maybe, it might be fun to take the time to travel, relax, do something we might not get the opportunity to do for a while."

She's quiet for a moment, thinking, and he watches her. He likes to think he's an expert on her, at this point, but he finds himself at sea here. They're not just friends anymore, not just precinct partners either. They're together, partners in every sense now, and there hasn't been time yet for this—for discussions of money and responsibility and sharing. He wants to share with her, wants to use his wealth to make her happy, to make them both happy together.

"I don't," she pauses and meets his eyes briefly, almost shyly. "I haven't really thought about going anywhere in a while."

His heart leaps up. Maybe it's not as much about not wanting him to share, as not knowing how to be shared with. That, he can fix. That, he can work with. That, he can utterly love about her. So he smiles at her, pulls on her hand until she's settled into his side, her breath falling hot against the crook of his shoulder.

"We could have fun with that," he says, bending to press his lips to her forehead, smiling against her skin. "Planning a trip can be almost as much fun as going on one."

Kate laughs quietly, snuggling in against his side. "You would say that."

"What?" he asks, peering at her in the dim light. "You don't agree?"

"The only trips I've been on in the last four years involved murder, or attempted murder of my person," she says, voice light, teasing.

It makes him falter. He'd forgotten, or refused to remember. "I…"

"Shh," she says quickly. "Not meant to be a downer, just a statement," she insists. "I just meant that I haven't enjoyed planning any kind of getaway in a long time either."

"Right," he says slowly, trying to play it off like she can. He's not as good at brushing it all under the rug.

"Do you want to get away from everything?" she asks, her voice soft and light and relaxed again.

He hums in thought, feels her smiling against his skin. "Might be nice," he admits. "Somewhere that's not full of memories all the time."

"Yeah," she sighs.

"It could be fun," he entices, seeing his opening. She's not going to let him spoil her, but she might let him spoil them. "We could go see Roman Ruins, London, Paris, Madrid. You could take me where you spent your summer abroad."

"The boys told you about that," she says, grimacing.

"You think I didn't want to know everything about that Kataya act?" he asks, laughing as she moans and swats at his chest with their joined hands. "You know me."

"That I do," she grumbles. "You want to see Kiev?"

"I've never been to the Ukraine, Russia, any of the Slavic countries really. Germany's as far east as I've gone in Europe."

She considers him for a moment and then shakes her head. "Not this time."

"Too many memories?" he asks gently.

She bites her lips and nods. "I could have spent that time here, you know?"

He sighs and tugs her up for a soft kiss, doesn't want her to see the sadness that must radiate from his eyes for her—that those memories of college are tinged, tainted with her mother's murder.

"So no Eastern Europe. South America? Want to go to Brazil, Argentina?"

She laughs as she settles back down on him. "Does it have to be somewhere exotic?"

"I'll take you to Idaho if that's what you want. Oh, or Washington, Seattle— see the rainforests," he says, getting himself excited with the possibilities. "Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?"

"No," she says quietly, watching him.

"It's amazing. Oh, or we could to California. Go to San Francisco, spend a week or two there. Tour Napa?" Visions of Kate in summer dresses, walking through vineyards fill his mind, her skin sun kissed, smile glowing at him as he snags a few grapes while the tour guide's not looking.

"Staying in the country might be nice," she admits, and he's glad to see that little spark in her eyes, kind of like the one she gets when they have a small, first lead—excited, a little wary, a little sexy. "Though, Vancouver's supposed to be amazing."

"We could drive across Canada," he says, latching on. "Start in Toronto and make our way over, then go down and see some of Washington, maybe go all the way down to California and fly back?"

Kate smiles and he sees her trying to rein it in. "You want to spend that much time in a car with me?"

He blinks. "In a—I'd spend a month with you in a fallout shelter."

She laughs and nudges him, blushing, because she knows he's not kidding. How can she possibly think he wouldn't want that much time with her? "Right, right," she mumbles as she stops laughing.

"Seriously," he protests, leaning up so he can see her face. "Are you actually worried that I'll get…sick of you, or bored, or something?"

She shakes her head after a moment, gives him a true smile. "No, I'm not."

"I hope," he stops and wets his lips. "You know I love you."

She nods and cards a hand through his hair. "I know."

"But that doesn't mean I want to spend my time with you?"

She sighs softly and presses her lips to his chest, just above his heart. "No, it does, I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I just—I'm just getting my sea legs."

"Do you not want to spend that much time with me in a car?" he asks, trying to give her a little breathing room, making his voice light, teasing, because they do both know how much he annoys her on car trips.

She lets out a slow breath and he feels her relax under his hands. "If we bring an iPod, I think we'll survive."

He grins, can't help himself. "So you want to do it?"

She shrugs against him and lifts up to meet his eyes. "Might be good for us, as long as you promise to write some nights, or while I drive." He nods eagerly and she smiles. "How long, do you think?"

"Three weeks, maybe? That way we can spend a day or two in every city, and not feel like we need to drive constantly," he says, trying to map it all out in his head. He's never seen most of Canada, just Toronto, and it's been ages since he spent any prolonged time on the West Coast.

"Three weeks sounds doable. Leave a little time before and after?" she suggests.

"As much time as you want," he replies instantly, regretting it the moment it pops out.

She's merciful. "As much as we want," she corrects firmly, no trace of reproach on her face. "And you need to clear it with Alexis too."

"Do you need—you said you wanted us to go to Burke next week," he manages, struck with recollection. He won't bail on that, not unless she wants him to, though, more and more, the thought of that appointment worries him. What will the man figure out, reveal? What will they have to deal with? What, and why, and how are they like this, so jumpy and tentative and scared?

She bites at her lip, thinking, her fingers tracing absent patterns down his jaw. "We can schedule it for when we get back," she decides.

"You're sure?"

"Maybe," she pauses and searches his eyes. "Maybe the time away will help, and then we'll be…He talks about letting things figure themselves out before fighting them." He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. She smiles and nods understandingly. "Yeah, I'm not great at it either, but maybe we try?"

"I'm game," he says, watching as her smile widens. "Stipulations?"

"Don't spend an obscene amount of money," she replies, pressing her lips to his for a moment—too short, always too short—before sliding back down to snuggle into him, warm and heavy. "And if you do, don't tell me about it."

He can so work with that.

(…)

"We're taking this?" she asks, pulling her suitcase up to the silver Suzuki Kizashi in his garage, sunglasses on her head, her hair pulled back in a french braid, chucks on her feet.

"It's a rental," he explains, popping the trunk to hoist their bags inside. "There's a dealership out there we can bring it to before we fly back."

"I'm impressed," she says, smiling at him, her hands swinging by her sides. She looks a little intimidated, actually.

"Because I didn't charter a bus?" he wonders, sauntering over to her once he's closed the trunk. She shrugs and laughs as he grabs her and hauls her into his chest, leaning down to plant one on her that's made of more laughter than lips.

"You thought about chartering a bus?" she asks as they pull apart.

He scoffs, affronted, and nudges her toward the passenger seat. "Just for that, I get to drive us out of the city."

She scowls but hops in, leaving him to check that they've got everything before joining her. She's already fiddling with the input, plugging in her iPod as her big, stylish black sunglasses teeter on her forehead.

"We should miss the traffic," she says as he starts the car, the engine purring to life, nicely quiet and soothing. He could have gotten something bigger, but this has decent mileage and it's unassuming. The idea of putting them into something conspicuous twisted at his guts. Plus, it's easier to speed in a smaller car. He wonders if she'll let him speed.

"Not like we're on a schedule anyway," he says as he backs out of the slot.

"Right," she agrees, though he hears a little hesitance there. He gives his attention to the road, nodding to the guard at the exit to the garage before he pulls onto the street.

"That okay with you?"

"Yeah. No, of course it is," she replies, a bit too quick, a bit too assured.

"Kate?" he prompts.

"Fine. I'm fine," she says, glancing at him as they come to their first light.

"Is it the not having a set plan?" he asks.

She fiddles with the iPod, finding a list of quiet Jazz that suffuses the car, cutting out some of the traffic around them. "No," she says, slumping in her seat as she pulls the sunglasses down over her eyes. "I can do spontaneous."

"Oh, I know," he agrees, giving her a quick leer before the light changes and he's pulling through the intersection. That day Perlmutter found them in the supply closet—well, he'd just say that it wasn't the only time they ended up in closet that day; and the second time consisted of much less clothing.

She reaches out and whacks his arm, but she's smiling, even if the stylish glasses block her eyes. "Don't be gross."

"Oh, none of your spontaneity is gross," he argues. "Glorious, not gross."

"You're such a charmer," she says, shaking her head as she looks back out the window.

"Finally, you admit it," he gloats. Then traffic demands his attention and it's not until they're out on the highway, heading toward Albany, that they exchange more words.

"Pretty," she says softly as they move around a wide bend, green-leafed flecks of sun falling all over the road ahead of them.

"Yeah." He glances over and finds her with her legs pulled up, sitting cross-legged on the seat, her shoes left somewhere on the floor. He'd stay in denial, but somehow, he thinks this is a wound that will fester, rather than heal. "If it's not the lack of agenda, what is it?"

She sighs and leans her head back into the plush seat. "I don't know," she murmurs over the soft music and drone of the engine.

"But you're edgy."

"I've been edgy for over a year," she tells him, pulling her knees up to rest her feet against the console. It's possibly the most adorable thing he's seen her do, though it's marred by the way she's gnawing on her lip and twisting her hands.

"Understandably so," he offers. He's been more than edgy for the past year, and the past month—edgy doesn't even being to cover it.

"This is good for me," she decides, turning her head to look at him. "And you, I think."

"What, getting away?"

She shakes her head. "No, going out, un—" she takes a deep breath and lets it out, her shoulders lowering as she relaxes. "Unprotected."

"No guns, no vests," he confirms, reaching out to take the hand she's attempting to destroy; it's a good thing neither of them really care about her cuticles.

"I can't remember the last time I felt safe," she says softly, almost too low to hear.

It cuts straight through him, pounds at his heart and lacerates his throat. "Kate," he manages.

She hums and brings his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his fingers before turning to look out the window. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't have words to explain how heartbreaking she is—how much he wants to make her safe.

"Time, Rick," she murmurs, her face turned away from him, but her fingers strong between his. "And fun, and lots of laughs." She turns back to him after a minute and raises her glasses so he gets a look at her amazing eyes and the tentative smile that stretches across her face.

"You'll laugh at my jokes?" he asks around the lump in his throat.

She chuckles. "I'll even make an effort with the bad ones."

He nods, grinning despite his heavy heart. "Best vacation ever."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I'd just like a car with working air conditioning.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9:<strong>

It turns out he doesn't need to tell her jokes to make her laugh. Getting frisked by the border patrol does it for him. Admittedly, making that joke about oranges, wine and some baker's sugar probably wasn't a good idea, but honestly, the body search is a little much. He's a best selling novelist. He won't be carting drugs in his, wow, not there!

She's a giggling mess when he finally gets back in the car and they roll out, to the dismissal of two very heavy glares from the guards.

"Shut up," he grumbles, shifting in his seat, uncomfortable with the recollection of that burly man's hand where no one but Kate's should ever be, even over his clothes.

"Not your type?" she manages around her hand, her fist practically in her mouth to keep from laughing more.

He scoffs and focuses on the road, which is free of traffic in the dying sunlight. "Please."

She shakes her head and pulls her feet back up on the console, a position she's fond of, and he's found he adores. "Ryan more your type? Or do you like a little Latin lovin'?"

He groans, remembering Javi's rather impassioned speech about how all the ladies loved them some good Latin lovin'. It was the glance at Lanie that really did him in, and he can't believe Kate can even bring it up. Sickening, that man. So full of himself.

"Ryan then," she decides.

"He's a little too," he searches for the right word, for this hypothetical homosexual relationship they're creating, between him, her lover, and one of their colleagues.

"Metrosexual?" she provides. "Too coiffed for you? My, that's rich."

"May I remind you that you are currently shacking up with a man you once called metrosexual, and you like to steal my body products."

"The mere fact that I want to steal them says more about you than me."

"But you like how I smell," he crows, catching her disgruntled glare.

"No I don't."

"Oh, please. That little inhale you do, right in my neck, followed by how your shoulders relax? You love how I smell."

"Maybe you'll love how the pullout couch smells in our room," she retorts, but there's no bite behind it. He loves the way she breathes him in, the way it gives him a moment to take in her scent, let his own body relax around her.

"I'd much rather pass out next to you in a haze of sated lust," he says, letting his mouth run away without protest.

She snorts and looks over at him. "Haze of sated lust? You sure you don't want me to take a turn at driving? I think you're losing it."

But her eyes are a shade darker, and her fingers come to toy at the crook of his elbow, and he knows she wants it too—knows she's looking forward to three weeks of comfortable beds and sex and sight seeing. He simply smiles at her and keeps his eyes on the road, letting the play of her fingers slowly work him up while she fiddles with the iPod, finding a Taylor Swift compilation. She knows all the lyrics, and it makes him enjoy it, the way she sings without shame wiping away any lingering dislike of the music. The lyrics aren't bad either.

"You're such a surprise," he says quietly as she finishes off all the lyrics to "Mine." It makes his heart ache a little. He really is a girl sometimes, though, he doesn't think having the songs make sense makes him feminine. He can be sensitive. She likes him sensitive.

She loves him sensitive, if the look she's giving him now, all heated cheeks and sparkling eyes is any indication. "Sometimes I like…sometimes it's nice not to think about it."

He smiles. "Sometimes it's nice to hear you sing."

She blushes and the fingers on his arm squeeze lightly before they drop away to change the song. Frank Sinatra pulses from the speakers, "I Get a Kick Out of You," crooning out at them.

He reaches out for her hand this time and she watches him expectantly, taking his proffered digits between her own. Ah, she wants him to sing. He hasn't sung for anyone for longer than he can remember. For Alexis, certainly, but it's been a long time since she wanted a lullaby.

He follows Frank, singing low, his voice quiet but present, and he catches her soft smile from the corner of his eye. He wishes he was holding her, waltzing around his living room, maybe with a Christmas tree in the corner, or upstairs in the nurs—he really ought to try to stay focused on the road and the woman, let the future stay where it is.

"I am so retroactively angry," she says as the song fades away, bringing another behind it. He loves Frank Sinatra.

"Why?" he wonders as they pass yet another truck. Perhaps traveling on a Sunday was not the best idea he's ever had.

"You've been holding out on me."

He glances over with a laugh. "What? When would I have ever had the opportunity to sing for you?"

"We've taken countless long trips," she argues with a pout. "How have you never sung for me before?"

Her fingers stroke over his in a way that's not entirely innocent and he grins. "Didn't think you could handle it," he offers, aware that he sounds like a smug bastard. He feels like one, and it feels good—even better when she glares at him.

"Excuse me?"

"I was being a gentleman."

"Because you thought all you'd have to do was sing for me and I'd be putty in your hands?" she scoffs.

Her hand is still in his, like she doesn't even notice, and now she's turned on and riled up and he's rather proud of himself. "Seems like it works to me."

He's not so proud when her nails dig into his skin, or when she blasts Celine Dion for the next hour, even after they stop to use the bathroom and restock on water. He'll have to find an opportunity to tease her about having enough of the woman on her iPod to keep it up for an entire hour, but now, he'll do his time. The music's grating on him, but she's adorable, all false anger and petulance.

They're at her last song when they pull up to the hotel. Her irritation has melted away as they've driven, eyes too caught up in observing the city as they move through. He hasn't had too much time to focus on her though, navigating his way through the traffic while trying to follow his GPS. It's dark now, and he's been driving for nearly eleven hours straight, plus that hold up at the border. They're both tired.

She looks over as he parks them in the underground garage at the Marriott on Bay Street. The lot is fairly empty so he chooses a spot close to the elevators; he'll pay the premium, no issue. He meets her eyes and smiles, watching as she fights to keep the last vestiges of her indignation.

"Singing would have been too easy. You know I like a challenge."

She shakes her head and gives him a pitying look. "I was this close to putting out, too," she sighs, giving him an inch between her thumb and forefinger.

"A delightful challenge," he corrects quickly as she smirks and unbuckles her seat belt. "A wonderful paradox," he tries as they get out. Man, now she's just looking at him like he's pathetic. He can fix it. He can.

He scoots around the car and grabs their bags before she can, giving her a winning, if sheepish smile as he says, "The best mystery I'll never solve?"

She considers him, face blank and calculating. He swallows against the look. The woman's damn intimidating sometimes, especially when it seems their sex life hangs in the balance.

"You are so easy, Castle," she finally gives him after a prolonged minute of silent, scary Beckett.

He glares at her and follows as she laughs her way toward the elevator. He catches up, still disgruntled, and she takes pity on him, leaning up to press her lips to his cheek.

"Thanks for driving," she says softly. She sounds so sincere, and it melts his resolve.

"Gotta take it when I can," he replies.

"Well, I've got the next leg, okay?" She reaches out for her shoulder bag, but he shakes his head. "I can carry something."

"Why?" he asks, grinning at her as the elevator arrives. "Enjoy it."

She frowns but lets him get in first, making no further moves to relieve him of his pack horse duties. He likes this—likes them like this, teasing, frowning, nudging at each other. It's so normal and yet it's not normal at all. He's still not quite used to the scratch of her nails over his back through his shirt. He's still not accustomed to the way she leans into him as they walk across the lobby, the way she hangs back and lets him deal with getting their room set up.

He gives her the keys and she leads him back to the elevator, his eyes trained on the sway of her hips in her tight jeans. She turns and catches him at it, but she smiles instead of glaring, reaching out to twine her hand through the crook of his elbow.

They don't talk on the way up, but her fingers trip along his skin and he bends awkwardly to press his lips to the crown of her head. When the doors open on the top floor, they're greeted by an elderly couple waiting to go back down, standing in the exact same position, like they're looking into an aging mirror.

They smile politely and step out, letting the other two pass by into the elevator. The doors close and they stand there looking at each other.

"Wow," he says, looking her over, trying to imagine the lines on her face, the future gray of her hair. He comes up a little short, stuck on the vision of the real-life Vera; but she's not Kate. Kate will be twice as beautiful. Maybe he's a little biased, but he really can't imagine her aging poorly.

"You'll have more hair," she decides with a smile, reaching out to take her suitcase from him.

He's grinning too much to protest, caught by her statement and the fact that it implies that they'll still be together when he goes gray—a distinguished gray, of course. Well, the smile, or the bag, or, just—they'll be together. No questions.

"You comin'?" she asks, door already open at the end of the hall.

He nods and jerks into movement, following her in as she disappears into the room, shaking her head at him. When he enters, he bumps into her where she's standing stock still by the door to the bathroom on the right in the little hallway that opens onto the corner room. The bed is enormous, a king placed across from a huge flat-screen on the dressers. There's also a four person table, couch, coffee table and two arm chairs on the far side of the room by the windows that look out on the city, the whole city. He's impressed.

"Castle," she breathes. "This is too—look at the view!"

He grins to himself and gently takes her bags so she can wander over to the window. He puts their suitcases on the holders along the wall by the bathroom and slides their carry bags onto the dresser by the television, perusing the extensive on-demand list for a moment before he's drawn back to Kate.

She stands before the enormous windows, arms across her chest as she observes the expanse of twinkling lights that make up the city at night. It's nothing as grand as the view from the Empire State Building, but Toronto is beautiful and he finds that there's ample magic in it when he's sliding his arms around her stomach and she's leaning back into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You're sure it's not too much?" she asks, her voice soft, body pliant against his.

"Not at all," he assures her.

They're going to drop a sizable chunk of change on this trip, but really, it's not even a drop in his bucket. It would be in hers, though, honestly, he doesn't know enough about her finances. Her apartment definitely didn't come from just her cop salary alone, but he's not sure how much she has on top of her normal wages, if anything after that place, after the summer of medical bills she wouldn't let him pay—the summer when he never got to offer to pay.

"Let me buy you dinner tomorrow?" she prompts a few minutes later, when his eyes are almost fuzzy from following the lights of traffic far below them.

"It's not a contest, you know," he says, wanting her to understand that he doesn't expect her to make things even. He's made a quarter of his fortune on her, on Nikki. She's paid him back in full over and over, and that's just with money.

She sighs and trails her fingers across his arms. "Wanting to pay for dinner does not mean I'm trying to win," she argues. "I want to pay for some things. I'm not even going to ask about rooms, gas, activities."

"Smart woman," he murmurs as he kisses her ear.

"Distracting me does not earn you points," she grumbles.

"Not distracting," he denies, moving to lave at the spot just below her lobe. He feels her knees buckle slightly and grins against her skin even as she growls at him.

"I want to contribute," she asserts, though her voice has lost some bite and gained some breath in a way that makes his arms tighten around her.

He takes a deep breath against her, willing himself to focus on the conversation, rather than the desire to just work her up so it goes away. "Do I need to remind you of all the ways you've contributed, including your being my muse for an intensely lucrative series of books and an upcoming feature film?"

"Contribute in more ways than feeding your already over-active imagination," she tells him, though he hears a tinge of affection there.

"Buy me dinner then," he reneges, feeling her smile as she presses her cheek to his when he rests his chin on her shoulder. "I get to take you for dessert."

"Deal," she says, laughing a bit before turning her head to find his lips. "Things go a lot smoother if you just agree at the onset, you know," she says as they break apart.

"But that would be easy," he whines as she huffs at him. "Wanna fight and have make up sex?"

Kate groans and lightly slaps his arm. "We've had enough make up sex this summer to last us at least until November."

He has to give her that one. Still. "November? That's awfully optimistic."

She turns in his arms, her eyes finding his, one eyebrow raised incredulously. "You got another murder board somewhere?"

He lets his head tilt back on a loud groan. "Oh, come on."

"Honestly, I can't think of anything traumatic enough to get me to hold out on you either, and I've already said I love you, so I'm lacking in the big fight department," she continues as he brings his head back up, raising a hand to cover her mouth.

"First, don't tempt the universe. We've had enough trauma; don't need you bringing any more down on us," he says seriously, even as she rolls her eyes at him. "Secondly, no, I have no murder board, and you're not emotionally blocked. I'm game for November. Got your phone on you? Mark it down?"

"We are not planning our next fight," she asserts, shaking his hand off.

"You said November," he argues.

"I—" she shakes her head and surges up to find his lips, her hands snaking up behind his neck, mouth hot and insistent against his. "I don't think we need to fight," she breathes into his mouth as his hands bunch her shirt up to find her skin.

"Hotel room doin' it for us?" he mumbles as they stumble toward the enormous bed.

"Don't give the room so much credit," she growls as she pins him down, crawling over his body in a way that has him arching up to meet her as soon as she reaches his mouth again.

"Don't underestimate trip sex, Kate," he groans into her mouth as he leans up on his elbows, following her back as she moves her hands to his chest, tugging at his buttons with impatient fingers.

"How 'bout you stop labeling it and get busy?" she suggests, pulling back to smirk at him.

He growls and flips them, pinning her beneath him, delighting in her breathless pant. But then her face scrunches and he realizes he grabbed her sides, her ribs.

"Hey," he says, hand cradling her cheek as she takes a few deep breaths. "You okay?"

Her eyes pop open, twice as dark, and she yanks him down to meet her mouth, her kiss almost feral. "I'll tell you if it's too much. Stop asking," she manages between kisses.

"But," he protests, trying to pull away. Damn, the woman is strong.

"Shut up," she growls, reaching down for his belt buckle. "You're not hurting me."

"I," he tries, but she seals her mouth to his, eyes meeting his, almost fuzzy, so close, so dark and alive.

"Getting away from it," she pants as they break apart. "We're here to get away. Leave it behind."

"It's part of you!" he gasps out. Her hands still and he wishes they were close enough to the headboard for him to whack his head against it. She doesn't push him away, but he watches as the passion dies in her eyes. "Kate," he sighs, leaning down to kiss her cheekbones as she goes still beneath him.

"It's fine," she mumbles, hands falling to the bed so he's left there over her, but disconnected. Well shit.

"No, it's not," he says, his lips against her skin. "Your ribs, Kate. Just your ribs."

"My ribs are fine," she mumbles, eyes focused on the ceiling now.

"Your ribs are bruised," he corrects, resting his hand lightly against her side. He notes that she's not as warm there now, but this is hardly the time to be inspecting her injuries, not when the hurt in her heart is bleeding out of her eyes. "But you're not."

Her eyes snap back to him. "Excuse me?"

"You're not bruised. You're—" he breaks off and searches her eyes, her face, for a clue of what he needs, what she needs to hear. "We're not trying to leave a part of you behind."

Her eyes widen a fraction before they fall shut and she blows out a strong breath. "Rick."

"You are not part of the darkness, Kate. You're not made of murder."

Her face tightens and her body stiffens beneath his, not in anger, but in repression. He shifts, watching her face, and she goes still like—like she thinks he's leaving. Oh, Kate.

He rolls to her side and then lays his arm across her, tugging her into him, pressing his lips to her temple as she slowly winds their legs together, turning onto her side so they're face to face. Her eyes remain shut, her breathing still strong and purposeful, and he's tempted to tell her it's okay to cry. But she doesn't want to, and somehow, he feels like starting their trip with a massive breakdown is pretty low on her priorities list.

"I was thinking we could check out the amusement park tomorrow," he says softly, running his hand up and down her side—the side without that thin scar. "See if you're brave enough for the big coasters."

The corner of her mouth twitches up and she slowly opens her eyes, which are a little brighter, a little shinier than normal. "I bet you scream like a little girl," she manages, her voice full of suppressed grief, but she's there with him again, smiling as he moves his hand up to her cheek.

"I do not," he argues, a beat too late. He does, and he's looking forward to watching her be fearless and majestic next to him while he shrieks. He wonders what her laugh sounds like in the middle of a rush of wind.

She shakes her head against his palm and then searches his eyes. "You gonna finish what you started?" she murmurs, grinning as his eyes widen.

"I," he manages, swallowing as her gaze turns lustful again, the switch throwing his mind but not his body, which is already alert, ready, wanting again.

"Thought," she takes a breath and scoots forward, pressing up against him. "Thought we were supposed to be having hot trip sex every night."

"I mean, I'm good to cudd—" she cuts off his teasing with a scorching kiss.

This time, he's wary of her ribs.

"Trip sex might be better than make up sex," she decides two hours later, when they're lying boneless in the big bed, the down comforter drawn up over them, naked bodies twined together.

He hums his agreement, pressing his lips to every bit of skin he can find. They'll get better. She'll get better. In a week or so, he won't have to worry about her ribs at all, and hopefully he won't have to keep bringing them to a crashing halt, relying on her to bring them out, distract them both.

She's so good at it though.

"I wonder if roller coaster sex is just as good," she poses a few minutes later, laughing as he groans.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: In TV, your internship doesn't normally interfere with your writing...Sorry 'bout the delay; exciting, busy weekend. :)**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10:<strong>

He slips into consciousness without effort, without jerking. The bed is soft and cool beneath him, and he stretches, turning onto his side to open his eyes on the beautiful vision of his, hopefully, still sleeping girlfriend.

He's met with empty sheets. He blinks and sits up, groaning in his apparent solitude. She's not there, and it takes his sleep-addled brain a moment to catch up. He's alone. Kate's gone. Kate's gone, and she's not in the bathroom, and even without anything else, he feels his adrenaline rising.

Her suitcase is still there across from the bed. Her glass of water is still half full on her side table, and her phone is still there next to it plugged into her charger. Her phone's still there, right there, where she plugged it in, last night.

They're in a hotel. She could be checking out the pool. She could be down the street getting him coffee. She could have gone out for a run. He needs to be rational about this—needs to be normal She could be a million places, but all he sees is her dead on the street, stuffed into the back of a cab, strangled in the stairwell. All he sees is her with a hole in her chest, bleeding out on the too green grass.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe, because he's being ridiculous. She's probably just stepped out to grab something to eat. It's already ten; he's slept late, as he always does if they don't set an alarm. And even tired, emotionally strung out, and injured, Kate's version of sleeping in only really lasts until nine.

The knowledge doesn't help, so he springs into action instead, body over mind. He forces himself to get up and start moving, but the pictures stay there in his head—his irrational, stupid, ridiculous head. Why didn't she take her phone? Why didn't she leave a note? Why can't he get himself to act like a rational adult?

He stumbles his way into the bathroom and stares at his reflection as he brushes his teeth. He looks less crazy now that he's gotten rid of the stress beard, but it's still there in his eyes, and why the hell isn't she back yet? By the time he's brushed and dressed and made the bed, he's actually shaking. Shaking—like they're back in that room, with a gun to her forehead, instead of in the Marriott in Toronto.

What does he do if she doesn't come back? They're in Toronto. Does he go to the police? Does he go looking? Does he call the boys? It's been a year of this; he ought to have a fully thought out plan by now. Then again, disappearing from a hotel room is in no way paramount to getting taken hostage by a conspiracy.

The door clicks open and he throws himself down on the bed, stretching out as casually he can, even with his racing pulse and twitching fingers. The woman's trying to give him a heart attack.

"Hey, you're up," she greets with a smile as she comes into view, her hair clipped back in a bun, body clad in tight-fitting work out clothes, sweat dripping down her forehead. "You okay?"

The gym. She went to the gym. Of course she did. And those pants don't have pockets, so she didn't take her phone with her. It's a safe hotel. They're in Canada. They've caught the Dragon. She's totally within her rights to act like they're on vacation. Everything's fine.

And he's still not breathing right. Shit.

"Rick?" she prompts, running her small towel along the back of her neck and down into her cleavage that's slightly damp, the dark blue fabric clinging to her skin.

"Sorry," he says instantly, giving her his best smile he tries to turn into a leer. "Lost in thought."

She shakes her head at him and drops the towel on the dresser. She grins and slowly leans down to press her lips to his, her body suspended above him. He allows himself the moment of relief, wholly too brief, and sighs as she pulls back.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she tells him, eyes alight, body still humming from her workout. "Then breakfast?"

"Sure," he replies, nodding in what he hopes is a clam, collected manner. From the way she considers him, he figures he's probably not pulling nonchalant off very well.

Still, she leaves him for the bathroom, dropping her tight tanktop by the door with abandon. He watches her go and lets out a deep sigh as the door closes. She's absolutely fine, and he's certifiable. Is this what it will be like for the whole trip? She so much as steps out for a call and he panics? That's just unnacceptable.

"You comin?" she calls out over the sound of the shower.

Oh, well, yeah, of course he is. He gets up and strips down, opening the door to a cloud of steam and her lithe figure already behind the glass.

"Thought the shirt was invitation enough," she hums as he opens the sliding door and joins her, the tiles warm with water beneath his feet.

"I'm slow this morning," he defends, trying to find his way to steady again. He reaches around her for the soap, effectively trapping her against his chest as he does. That helps. She's soft and warm and wet and he drops his forehead to her shoulder without thought, taking a deep breath of her, a mix of soap and sweat.

"Hey," she says softly, trailing her fingers along the arms that have given up with soap and wrapped around her stomach, cradling her body into his. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assures her. There's no point in telling her that he was about five minutes away from calling for back up—forgetting that there is no back up to have here. "Missed my morning cuddle."

"Uh-huh," she snorts, leaning back into him. "So you're hoping for shower sex?"

She doesn't sound disinterested and he laughs breathlessly against her skin. "Perhaps." Perhaps life affirming sex will convince him that she's well and truly safe and here to stay.

She turns then and brings her eyes to his before he can shutter it all away, pretend that it's a normal morning for them both. "Did," she pauses and scans his face while he tries to get his heart out of his eyes, the corners of his mouth, the tension he can feel in his forehead. "Did you have a nightmare?"

He's shaking his head before he can muster the thought that she just gave him a great cover. Damn honest impulses. "No," he adds, completing the gesture.

She bobs her head and runs her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his skull as he slides his hands up and down her sides. "Did you—did I leave a note?"

He blinks and then shakes his head, watching as her eyes flutter shut.

"Damn," she hisses, pressing closer, trailing her hand to cup his cheek. "You were worried," she surmises, opening her eyes to meet his.

He shrugs and pulls her in for a kiss, unable to take the regret swimming in her eyes, in the way her hands hold him too gently, too tender. But she won't let him sweep them away, won't let him use their bodies to wash away the pain. It would be so much easier. He's just being ridiculous.

"Hey," she breathes, leaning back from him, her lips red and chest heaving in a way that does not make him want to talk. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't take my phone either, did I?"

"No," he sighs, leaning his forehead against hers as she draws closer again, unconsciously comforting.

"I was just at the gym," she assures. "It's off the lobby."

"I know."

"But you thought?"

"I don't know what I thought," he grunts, pulling her in so his cheek is pressed to her temple, so he can feel her but doesn't have to meet her eyes, see the pain his irrationality is causing her, all because she forgot her freaking phone.

"My stuff is still here," she continues, confusion flooding her tone now. "Did you—I mean, what did you think could have happened if everything was still here?"

"I don't know," he growls, surprised by his own tone, but not the tension he feels in her body at his words. "I don't know," he adds, softer, trying not to take it out on her, because it really has nothing to do with her morning routine.

"We're safe," she mumurs after a quiet minute. "Really, really safe."

"I know." He does. He knows that. He just doesn't—what? Doesn't believe it?

"No one's going to abduct me while I'm at the gym," she offers, running her fingers along the nape of his neck, her breath warm at his throat, so comforting, so understanding of him in this strange space of terror and fright and regrowth.

He squeezes her, closing his eyes against the visions of her tied up in some little room in a warehouse, Jerry Tyson, Dick Coonan, Hal Lockwood looming over her with knives and guns and rope. "I know," he grits out.

"I didn't mean to freak you out," she mumbles before her lips meet his skin. She pulls back to find his eyes, even though he's sure she'll see too much, see those visions that he can't exorsize. "You were really worried," she says, surprised and awed and hurt as well.

"I," he breaks off and sighs, closing his eyes. "Yeah, yeah I was."

"I'll take my phone next time," she decides, waiting until he opens his eyes. "But really, Castle, nothing's going to happen to me."

He really wants to believe it—desperately wants to think she's forever safe. But she's not. There are people, evil people, out there.

"We caught him," she adds on a whisper, arching up on the balls of her feet to press her lips to his, eyes level with his own. "We caught him, and no one's coming after me anymore. No one's coming after you."

"Don't care 'bout me," he mumbles catching her mouth.

"Like hell," she growls, surging after him as he steps back toward the wall in a dance they've been doing for too long—protect me, protect you.

Their bodies press together and then they're both angry and wanting and it's fast and hard between them, with the hot water pouring down, filling the stall with steam. And like before, like those nights when nothing was sure and all they had was each other, it breaks them both, pulls them out of the darkness and into the bright light of the bathroom.

She laughs against his shoulder when they fall still and he feels a corresponding rumble in his chest, which is loose and comfortable now, all his aching dread gone and fallen away somewhere down the drain.

"Does this count as your cuddle time?" she wonders as he slowly lets her to her feet and she sways, laughing even more.

"I mean, I'm game to just go back to sleep," he admits, suddenly tired and heavy and exhillarated all at once.

"What about the theme park?" she asks, smoothing the hair that's fallen into his eyes.

"Tomorrow," he says quickly, feeling like she's on the edge of agreeing to spend all day in bed with him, ordering room service, watching movies, and proving again and again how alive they are.

She searches his face and then shakes her head, her lip pulled between her teeth as she considers him. "Seriously?"

"We're here to relax, right?" he entices, running his fingers over her back. "Come relax with me."

"I'm gonna fall asleep," she warns. "I've had two workouts and it's only eleven."

He laughs, can laugh about it now. "So we go back to sleep."

"You just got up," she argues.

"So? We're on vacation. Come on, Beckett. Play hooky with me?" he pleads in his best 'Castle' voice, adding his signature little wiggle of his eyebrows. He knows she loves it.

She regards him with eager eyes, even as she presses her lips together, trying valiently to find that disapproving stare she's perfected over the last four years. She fails, and it's possibly the biggest triumph he's felt since they caught the Dragon. Oh, he's so whipped, so very happily whipped.

"Fine," she lets out, releasing her lips into a brilliant smile. "Fine, we'll spend all day in bed."

He lets out a joyous whoop and tugs her back against his chest, lifting her up as she squeaks and laughs against his ear.

"You're ridiculous," she mumbles.

"Don't care," he asserts, putting her down and reaching around to shut off the water. "My girl's spending the day with me in bed. I can be ridiculous."

"Don't gloat. It's not becoming," she says, skirting around him to step out of the shower, tossing him a grin over her shoulder.

He sees the caution she tries to hide as they dry off, notices the way she's touching him more than normal—more even than a day in bed necessitates. She's doing this for him, to help him, soothe him, heal him. And though he should probably focus on it, talk about it, he ignores it. He can't be bothered to care about his ego or his psyche, because it works; every touch makes the last vestiges of panic fade away, until he's totally relaxed, watching his girlfriend fall into a sated sleep.

He reaches out and runs his fingers through her wet hair, staring at her beautiful face that's right there—there and safe and whole. He trails his fingers down to rest over her heart that beats strongly against her ribs.

"Promise I'll take my phone," she sighs, shifting to wrap her hand around his on her chest. "Promise to stop worrying?"

"I'll try," he agrees, shifting down to pull her into him, smiling as she slips a leg between his.

"We can't spend the whole trip in bed," she mumbles into his chest.

He laughs and closes his eyes, humming his agreement, even though he almost disagrees. He could spend the whole trip in bed, as long as she's in the bed with him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Someday. An eternity away. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11:<strong>

"That's a big roller coaster," he manages as they stand at the gates of Wonderland, which hosts an impressive 16 roller coasters that he's been dreaming about for two days. Now that they're here though, that 306 foot drop is kind of scaring the shit out of him. "A freakishly big roller coaster."

"That's awesome," Kate exclaims, grinning with such abandon that he momentarily forgets his fears. She looks giddy, radiant, and damn it, he's going to crap himself on that giant monstrosity. "Come on! Let's get there before the line's too big."

It's Tuesday, in September. They don't need to get on line for that coaster just yet. It's early, really early—like the park just opened early.

"Why don't we," he looks around frantically. He loves coasters, he does, but that's more than he can handle. It looks like it might kill him, actually. "Hey! Dinosaurs," he says madly, finding the sign for the new exhibit. "Let's go do that first."

"No way," Kate argues, even as she lets him drag her over to the display. "Come on, we should do that after Leviathan," she protests. "That way we can calm down before the other one, Behemoth?"

"Or," he says, going for calm and collected and practical. "We could enjoy this while it's still cool outside, and then do the coasters when it's hot. Cool off with the wind?"

She eyes him, staring him down even in her white-cotton long sleeved shirt and jeans with her sunglasses on her forehead. Apparently, the lack of heels and blazer does not make her less intimidating. Pity. And he's so busy noticing how her hair curls along her shoulders that he forgets to keep up his bravado.

"You're scared," she decides, something between amusement and disbelief in her voice.

"I'm not," he asserts, turning to look up at the coaster, which rises like a blue tower of doom above them. They're running a few cars for the start of the day, and even empty, it looks utterly, thoroughly terrifying.

"I thought you liked coasters," she adds, leaning into his shoulder in a way that would make any other man think she was comforting him. It's the lilt in her voice that gives her away; she's enjoying this way too much to be an innocent, loving girlfriend right now.

"I do," he says petulantly.

"What'sa matter, Castle," she taunts, stepping away to stand in front of him. "You afraid of a little wind?"

He glares at her and then glances back to the coaster. "Of course not."

"It's okay to be scared," she says with a shrug and a voice that almost sounds convincing. "I can ride it alone."

Right, like he'd ever agree to that, the evil, evil minx of a woman. He'll show her. "Let's go," he decides, grabbing her hand to pull her toward the other side of the terrifying death trap. Why? Why does he put himself in these situations?

Alexis still hasn't let him forget about the time he screamed so loud he won a prize on the Superman at Six Flags. Why on earth did he suggest this again?

He turns to look at Kate as they join the short queue for the ride, a line that winds them through a maze of orange dividers. They're probably four trains away at this point, and the group is a mix of people who look as excited as Kate and as terrified as he feels.

He watches her as they watch the first train rise up that nauseating 306 feet and he realizes why he suggested it. Kate's eyes are huge, a hand over her forehead to block the glare from the sun, like she's just forgotten her sunglasses are even there. She's bouncing. She's actually bouncing, and when she turns to meet his gaze, she's lit up, no trace of sadness, or grief there to see—just Kate, just radiant, beautiful, childish Kate.

"I'll hold your hand," she says sweetly, squeezing the fingers she's still got wound through hers. "And I won't tell the boys if you scream."

"I don't believe you," he mumbles.

It's enough. It's so more than enough, because she's excited next to him, bouncing and jostling his shoulder every so often. She gasps as they watch the fourth train make the plummet. She squeals lightly in glee as they move up again; they're first in line.

He's wanted proof of life, of her survival, her reality with him. This is it. This is real, and them, and Christ that is a long way down.

"We're up," she says, tugging him behind her as the guard opens the gate.

The first car. Oh, no way. Kate!

But she's let go of his hand and strapped herself in before he can protest, and there's no way he's doing this without her by his side. But the first car?

"You're not going to vomit, are you?" she asks, and he hears a touch of actual concern in there as he straps in, hauling the chest guard over his head with shaking hands. "Rick?"

"I'm going to deafen you," he grits out as the car jerks forward.

She laughs, delighted, and he feels her delicate fingers winding through his, her grip strong. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."

"You better be screaming with me," he groans as they press back into the seats, nearly vertical in their ascent. "Loud and embarrassing."

"I'll do my best," she agrees with a grin. Her sunglasses aren't on her face and he can't remember seeing her take them off. But she looks so happy, so very excited and she squeals again, just in time for him to snap his head forward as they crest the top of the hill.

Holy mother of—

His scream drowns out her astounded laughter as they hurtle downward. He's going to die. They're going to die. After everything, this is how they'll go.

"This is amazing!" she shrieks as they hurtle toward the bottom.

Amazing? It's—it's—holy crap that's awesome. He's screaming like a tiny, frightened three-year-old girl, but it's fantastic. And then they're upside down. It has a loop? When did it get a loop? How did he not see that coming?

Her hand slides from his so they can grip at their own restraints, laughing and yelling as they even back out for the last dip. All too soon, they're screeching back into the station, eyes wide and wet with the wind, cheeks pink, mouths open and gasping.

"Oh my God," she breathes out, beaming at him. "That was incredible."

"Yeah," he manages, his stomach still somewhere by his feet, his heart beating a million miles an hour—maybe really just the 148 miles per hour of the ride.

"You okay?" she gasps as their restraints hiss and allow them to free themselves.

"Yeah," he repeats, finding the muscles in his face to smile at her. "That was awesome."

"Told you it would be," she teases as he follows her out and across the platform, chuckling as she pulls her sunglasses out of her cleavage. Maybe that's where she hid the badge all those years ago. Couldn't be though, really, could it? There wasn't enough space.

"No," he corrects as he catches up and wraps his arm around her shoulders. "You promised to protect me. There was no declaration of impending awesomeness."

"I succeeded though," she gloats even as she twines her fingers with the ones that dangle off her shoulder. "You're smiling. You even laughed."

"I wasn't scared," he rebuffs as they slow to wait for their pictures on the screens in the little shack. He's not really looking forward to seeing what he looked like.

The guy behind the counter takes one look at him and laughs so hard he has to adjust his baseball cap. "That bad?" Kate asks, already grinning.

"Oh, just wait," the kid, Don, says, smirking at him.

The photos pop up on the six screens and Castle groans. His mouth is wide in a horrified shriek while Kate's there beside him, laughing, her hair whipping back behind her. There's definitely a tear streaming down his cheek and his eyes zero in on their hands.

He looks down at his shoulder and examines the hand clutched in his, which is still pink. Damn, he bruised her.

"A badge of honor," she says quietly, still giggling. "Like that picture. We'll take three," she tells the kid before Castle can protest.

She slips out her wallet and passes the money across. Don hands them three cards with that embarrassing photo that he's pretty sure they need to frame, and Castle takes them grudgingly, slipping them into the pocket of his light jacket, proud of having thought to wear the tan one with big pockets.

"Can I buy you a cotton candy to soothe your wounded ego?" Kate asks as she hooks her arm into his and gives Don a grateful smile.

"A big one," he grumbles. "Huge."

"Trying to match the size of your—"

He cuts her off with a swift kiss that's instantly heavy since neither of them has fully reclaimed their breath. "Trying too hard," he mumbles against her mouth, smiling as she laughs.

"Didn't know I could over-inflate your ego."

"When I'm not paying attention, feel free," he says, smiling as she slides her arm across his back, fingers toying with the belt loop on his hip. "But right now, you're so transparent, I'm a little ashamed for you."

She pinches his side but leans into him, steering him toward a stand along the sidewalk right next to a billboard for the Dinosaur exhibit. "Shut up, and noted," she murmurs as they step up to the counter. "One embarrassingly large cotton candy, please," she tells the dread-locked man behind the counter, passing him a few dollars. "Blue raspberry. American money okay?"

He nods. "Feeding her sweet tooth, man?" he asks, winking at Castle.

Kate bristles at his side and Castle grins, shaking his head. "She's feeding mine. Making it up to me."

"You cheat on him?" the guy asks.

Kate opens her mouth but he squeezes her side. "Just the cotton candy, thanks," he says, giving the guy a significant look.

"How is that the next thought?" she hisses in his ear as she arches up to press her lips to his cheek.

"Forget it," he whispers, squeezing her side.

The guy hands him a huge cone of the blue, sticky spun sugar, giving both of them an embarrassed smile. "Here you go. Sorry," he says quietly.

Kate gives a brisk nod and then drags Castle away, walking quickly, angrily. He lets her work it off for a minute, keeping up even as he takes a huge bite of his cotton candy. He grins around the mouthful. It's kind of disgusting, but he loves it, loves the way it sticks to his tongue and melts along the roof of his mouth.

"Your lips are turning blue," Kate observes as they stop and she plops down on a bench.

"You know, blue lipstick on men was very popular in Asia a while back," he offers, joining her on the wooden bench that's probably been home to more than one sticky-handed child and fat-bottomed American eating his own gluttonous mound of candy and fried food.

"I don't know if I want you kissing me after that," she says, watching as he tears off another piece, his fingers plastered together as he licks them clean.

"Try some," he insists, ripping off another piece and extending it toward her. She eyes his hand with trepidation, eyebrows furrowed. "Come on, then we're both blue, and no one will assume you're cheating on me," he cajoles.

She glares at him and surges forward, wrapping her lips around his fingers and taking her good, sweet time to slide her tongue over his digits, between them, swirling. His breathing speeds up and he shifts in his seat. "Kate," he groans when it's apparent that she's no longer eating, just torturing him.

"You better never assume I'm cheating on you," she bites out as she releases his fingers with an obscene pop.

He swallows hard and meets her eyes. "I, uh," he stammers, watching as her glare melts into a self-satisfied smirk. "Right."

She laughs and slides closer, gliding her hand up to caress the nape of his neck. "Got that, Castle?"

"No cheating on me. Got it," he offers, taking a bite of candy just to have something to do with his mouth, which seems to have gone slack.

"I can't believe he even suggested it," she huffs.

"Probably just couldn't believe you're with me," he shrugs, turning to press his lips to her forearm. He leaves a small lip-shaped, blue imprint on the white fabric and smiles sheepishly at her.

She laughs. "I shouldn't have bothered wearing white to a theme park to begin with."

Oh, he so loves Vacation Kate. He grins and peppers every part of her he can reach with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. She laughs and tries to fight him off, both of them careful of the candy; smudges are one thing, but neither wants her covered in the stuff.

"Castle," she finally gets out, pushing him away. "Eat your candy, and then we can see the dinosaurs."

He grins and nods before demolishing what's left. They'll need to spend a long time in that exhibit, or he really will lose it on the next coaster.

"Are you thinking of trying to ride every one?" she asks a few minutes later—minutes filled with her softly-caressing fingers and the sweet taste of spun sugar.

"If you're game," he decides. Might be fun to be able to say they did it, and the park's relatively empty.

"I'm not the one who screams like a little girl," she taunts, standing and extending her hands for his as he tosses the empty cone into the trash.

"No, you laugh in the face of danger," he concedes, letting her pull him up and stumbling purposefully to wrap his arms around her. "But maybe the dinosaurs will scare you."

(…)

It's not the dinosaurs, though they are freakishly well done. It happens as they pass by the pterodactyl—a glint off the sign explaining the habitat. It bounces at them and Kate stalls to a halt, bringing him with her, her fingers a vice on his arm.

"Kate?" he says softly, watching as she stares at the sign. Then her head swivels, looking around the area, zeroing in on the small family on the other side of the path, looking up at the brontosaurus, the father crouching down next to his young son, pointing up at the dinosaur, explaining.

"Hey," Castle tries again, gently removing his arm so he can shift to stand in front of her, finding her eyes through her sunglasses. They're wide and panicked and she's standing stock still, just staring at him. The T-Rex roars in the distance, a few hundred feet back, and she twitches. "You okay?"

She opens her mouth just as the little boy knocks over his stroller, sending it clattering to the ground, two metal water bottles spilling out to hit the ground with a twang. He brings his eyes back to Kate and finds her with her lips pressed shut, eyes closed, hands in fists at her sides.

"It's just a little kid," he says softly, shifting again to block her from the prying eyes behind them. "Kate?"

"I, hum," she gives him, licking her lips as she forces her shoulders down. "Yeah."

He reaches out and smoothes his hands down her arms, watching as she takes a shallow breath and forces on a smile. "You wanna get out of here?"

"You like dinosaurs," she says and he can't help but laugh a little.

Her mouth twitches, whether to frown of smile, he can't be sure. But it's something. "I do. But we can hit a museum in another city. Let's get a water or something."

She nods and he takes her hand as the damn brontosaurus lets out a growl, or something. She shifts closer to him and drags his arm up over her shoulders, in a move that absolutely floors him. But she relaxes slightly with the weight and winds her hand across his back to clench into his jacket. Anchor, he can be.

After a few minutes of stiff, stilted walking, they find a food pavilion and he ducks them inside, ignoring the garish dinosaur decorations. It's empty; thank goodness for small favors. He steers them to the counter and buys two waters before guiding her back into the corner. The kids at the counter eye them curiously, but he can't be bothered to care, not when he's got a girlfriend somewhere in the throes of PTSD.

"Here," he says gently, lowering them to a wooden bench along the wall. She scoots toward the corner and he follows, more than concerned, breaking, aching for her—for the way something so normal spiraled her down.

He really should have seen it coming. She's been entirely too collected for the past few days, and he's been so—well shit. He's been so needy that she's been being strong for him and that won't work, not if it leads to this.

He unscrews the lid of the water and passes it to her, watching as she takes a few short sips before handing it back with trembling fingers.

"Was it the light?" he asks quietly, his hand falling to rest on her thigh where they're smashed together on the light brown bench in their dark corner.

She nods and swallows thickly, turning to press her cheek to his shoulder. "Then the noise," she murmurs.

"What about it got you?" he wonders as her fingers come to rest over his. "You were okay on the coaster."

"I don't know," she sighs, squeezing his hand. "I don't. It's not something—not rational."

He nods and then rests his cheek against her head. "I know that feeling."

"Yeah, but yours doesn't leave you seized up in the middle of a dinosaur walk," she mumbles into his jacket. "God. I'm crazy. I'm absolutely crazy."

"No, you're not," he asserts, rubbing his thumb against her jeans. "No memories, no triggers, just the light?"

She huffs out a breath and her fingers slacken around his. "I don't know. That family, you know? The ones near us? I just—my mom and dad and I did this once. Not here, but they took me to an exhibit in Boston when I was really little, and my mom crouched down like his dad was doing. But it wasn't a trigger or anything," she tells him, her voice rough and low.

"It made you miss your mom," he concludes, shifting so he can wrap his arm around her.

She wastes no time in turning sideways to slide her legs over his so she's curled into his chest. There's a column that blocks them from view from the rest of the pavilion, so he presses his lips to her forehead and strokes his hand up and down her thigh. Her fingers thread into the lapel of his jacket, her other hand curled up along her side, fist at his bicep.

"I didn't think solving this would make the grief come back," she whispers, bending in on herself in his lap.

"It's okay," he offers, feeling rather lacking in anything but physical comfort.

"It's not. I just had a panic attack in a theme park," she retorts and he clutches her thigh, adds pressure to help her relax against him—gives her the strength in his body, all he has.

"It'll fade with time," he promises. It did before. It will again. And this time he's here to help her through it, rather than standing on the other side of a wrought iron door, listening to her break down.

She nods against him and he feels her breath hitch as she presses her cheek firmly into his shoulder. "You said once you used to take Alexis to the museum?"

He smiles softly and nods against the crown of her head. "Every Sunday. For years."

"Mom did that with me. Dad too, but Sundays were our thing, mostly. Dad and I did stuff during the week after school." She takes a deep breath against him and he relaxes at the feeling—knowing she's calming down now. "It still hurts," she whispers.

"Of course it does."

"I—" she trails off and sniffles so quietly it breaks his heart all over again.

"You can cry, you know," he tells her, hoping he sounds supportive, or comforting, or something that's not pity or prompting.

"We're," she sighs and snuggles closer. He can feel her eyes clenched shut, notes the stiffness in her jaw. "We're in public."

"We're pretty alone, actually," he corrects, looking out at the empty room where they're hidden in their little corner. "Just me."

She's still and stiff for a moment before he feels her let go, listens to the quick intakes of breath and quiet sobs for his ears alone. He rubs her back and caresses her thigh, pressing kisses to her forehead as they rock side to side.

"I want to stop wanting," she whispers, her voice blocked and stuffed as she sniffles and reaches up to wipe at her eyes. "I just want to be normal."

"Normal's boring," he replies instantly.

She lifts her head to look at him, and he wonders if he's wrong. But then she smiles sadly, brokenly, and lifts her hand to his face to smooth over the creases by his eyes.

"I want to go to the theme park with my boyfriend and not end up sobbing my eyes out in a children's food pavilion," she corrects, shaking her head. "I want to stop being this PTSD mess who seizes up and breaks down." She takes a deep, shaking breath and lets her hand fall to pat against his heart. "I want to be strong again."

"Oh, hey," he murmurs, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of her head. "You're so strong, Kate," he says, searching to find her eyes as they finally lift up, red and puffy and perfect. "It's one of the many things I love about you. You're amazingly strong."

"I'm not," she argues, her hand curling into the fabric of his jacket again. "I can't even—Castle, I can't even deal with water bottles and pavement."

"Right now, you don't have to be super cop. That's," he pauses and leans down to press his forehead to hers. "That's a different type of strong. But this? For you? Doing this with me? That's brave, Kate."

She huffs something between a laugh and a sob and rolls her bottom lip through her teeth. "If not with you, then who? No other man would want me after seeing me like this." He opens his mouth, unsure of where to take that, and she does laugh then. "Sorry, no, I meant," she breaks off and shifts down to press her face to his throat. "No other man has ever loved me like you do. If I can't do this with you, who can I do it with?"

"Just with me," he promises. "Right here. I'm here. Don't—let's talk about this." Another family hurtles inside, kids yelling and talking with glee. Kate stiffens and then relaxes against him, smiling into his throat. "Maybe not here, but tonight? You don't have to put up a front."

"I'm not—"

"Being all together so I can fall apart isn't worth it if it's going to put you here every few days," he says gently, running his fingers through her hair. "I'm a mess, but that doesn't mean you can't be too."

"Could end up being a pretty depressing, neurotic trip," she cautions, pulling back to meet his eyes.

"Can we still have sex?" She laughs, shocked, and swats at his chest, her scandal melding into affection as he catches her hand and brings it to his lips. "Can we?"

She nods, her eyes darker and he feels himself shifting without thought. "Not with the kids around," she insists, shaking her head as she considers him, adoring and broken and bright at once. "But yeah, we can still have sex. Needy sex works for us."

"Not needy all the time," he says, grinning as her true smile finds its way back. "But it's always good with you."

"Good?"

"Great," he corrects quickly.

"Just great? Come on. You're a writer."

He narrows his eyes but goes along. "Fantastic, superb, mind-blowing."

"Earth shattering?" she asks, grinning at him, and even breaking and crying, she's evil and sexy and everything.

He surges forward and catches her lips, chuckling as she giggles into the kiss, their happiness restored. It's going to be a long, long road back, but he can make her laugh. He can make her smile. He can help her make herself whole again. "That too."


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Well, I don't have class today.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12:<strong>

"Have you seen my phone charger?" Castle asks as Kate emerges from the bathroom, zipping her cosmetics bag shut.

"I thought you plugged it in by the TV."

He sighs and shakes his head, pulling out the strip to show her the empty sockets. "Me too, but it's not here. Did you move it?"

"No," she replies as she walks over and drops her bag into her suitcase on the bed. "Mine was on the side table."

"You're sure? They're the same," he huffs, leaning back against the dresser, confused. It was right there. He knows it was.

"Of course I'm sure." She turns to look at him, hands on her hips, and he realizes insinuating that she might have taken his charger may not have been the best course of action. "Did you check everywhere?"

"Of course I did," he retorts. They're really too good at this. "I wouldn't have asked if I hadn't."

Kate narrows her eyes and then turns back to her suitcase, sweeping her hands through the bag. She pulls out a single charger and holds it up, eyebrows raised. "I only have mine."

He bites his lip and weighs his options. That's actually his charger, and now, of course, his eyes catch the white of her cable, which has fallen behind her side table.

"What?" she prompts.

He needs to get her cable, or they'll leave it here, and that won't work. "I, huh," he offers as he skirts around her and bends over the table to unplug her charger. "Got 'em both now."

She stares at her charger and back to his, shifting slightly on her feet. Neither of them wants to fight, and they could both walk away, egos totally intact, if Kate decides to let it go. Because she was wrong, but he doesn't need that validation. He'd much rather have someone to talk to in the car on the way to Sault Ste. Marie.

"This is yours," she says after a minute. They exchange chargers and he walks to the other side of the bed to slide his into his suitcase.

She glances up at him and catches his eye. He smiles. "We're good," he tells her.

"I wasn't—"

He holds up a hand, already sense her rising heckles. "No, I meant, we're good at this," he corrects.

Her mouth parts and she stares at him for a few moments like he's crazy, before shaking her head and returning to packing. But she kisses his cheek as they pass each other, moving for various little things they've left around the living room. He finds her red-lace brassiere and hands it to her with a wink.

"We're very good," she murmurs, taking it with long, nimble fingers that linger a little too long against his.

"Kate," he groans as she bends over her bag, giving him a good view of the way her jeans hug her spectacular ass.

"Too good?" she wonders, turning around to smirk at him, her eyes bright and popping against the deep green of her simple button down.

He chuckles and sidles over to wrap his arms around her, pulling her in for a kiss. She sighs against his lips and slides her arms around his neck, tugging him closer until they're falling backward onto the bed between their suitcases.

"Do we really need to leave now?" she pants as her fingers come to toy at the buttons of his shirt.

He releases her neck with a wet pop and pulls back to meet her eyes. Her hand slips inside his shirt and he groans at the scrape of her nails over his stomach, delighting in her devious grin.

"Only if you don't mind making another stop," he gets out before she yanks him back down. "Pushy."

"You love it."

(…)

So they leave two hours later than they planned. He hardly cares. They stowed their bags and then traipsed down the street to grab good coffee, and now he's sitting in the passenger seat, sipping mocha and feeding her pieces of a muffin bite by bite.

"That's so good," she says as they clear the city limits headed for route 17.

He nods, his mouth full of the bit he originally intended for her. But he has to get at least a taste. He liked his croissant, but the noises she's been making prove that he should have gotten them two cinnamon muffins.

"Hey. You had yours," she protests, shooting him a look. "Don't eat my breakfast just because I'm driving."

"Don't drive if you want all of your muffin," he shoots back.

She laughs and he shakes his head, sinking back into the seat as he passes over the last chunk. He's tired, sated, and comfortable. There's something very normal about having her behind the wheel, and sitting next to her, finding ways to push her buttons. This morning it's sampling her breakfast. Maybe after they stop for food in Sudbury, he'll start playing tag with the radio.

"So," she says a few minutes later, breaking the silence—a contented silence that he thinks speaks volumes about where they are together. Their first year together he spoke constantly, worried that if he didn't, she'd fine time to kick him to the curb.

"So," he parrots, turning to look at her as she drives, sunglasses down over her eyes and her hair wild around her neck. He kind of ruined the whole arranged curl thing she had going on with that second round. Totally worth it.

"So, what are your road trip games?" she asks, glancing at him with a small smile that warms his heart.

She's adorable. Really, a grown woman should not be able to pull that off so well, but she sounds shy and tentative and excited, and it just melts him. "Huh," he offers, trying to remember the last time he and Alexis played road trip games. Usually, she sleeps on the way to the Hamptons, and outside of that, they've flown everywhere in the last few years.

"Have I stumped you already?" Kate tosses back, grinning. "Wow, that's sad."

"Hey now," he objects, reaching out to tug on a lock of her hair. "I know lots of games. It's the matter of tailoring them to you that's the issue."

"I need specialized games." He can't tell if that's approval or irritation there.

"Well, 'name your favorite farm animal' could be entertaining, but I feel like 'name your most embarrassing story concerning this object' might be more fun."

He watches as her lips press together and her fingers drum on the steering wheel. Approval—she looks excited again, like they're bouncing theory in front of the white board.

"All right, Castle," she hums and he perks up in his seat like always. She has way too much power over him.

"Most embarrassing story about a lamp post. Go."

Did they have to start there? In retrospect, this might be a terrible game. He's definitely going to one-up her on embarrassing stories. Lamp post? He's got a bunch of those.

"Well, there was one time, in my senior year of college, that I was caught, let's say, in a less than delicate position against a lamp post."

"Was there a girl involved?" she asks, still smiling. Good, seems his collegiate days are not grounds for jealousy. He makes a mental note to steer clear of any Kira related stories.

"There was a girl, but she was gone by the time they got there," he admits.

She's silent for a second before she glances at him. "And why were you still at the lamp post, pants around your ankles?"

She's smart, his detective. "Might have been tied to the post with my discarded tie," he grumbles.

The latent shame is washed away by her loud laugh and he grins at his former self. Not one of his best nights in Washington Square Park, he's gotta say.

"Wow," she lets out, reaching across to pat his arm consolingly. "So idiocy runs deep."

"In my defense, she was hot and I was about 21."

Kate shakes her head and brings her hand back to the steering wheel. "We're not doing it against a lamp post."

Oh, but the images that conjures, of her and the light, and his hands, and the openness of it—

"Not happening," she repeats.

"Fine," he agrees, grinning at her as she whacks him. "Fine. Your turn." He scans the passing scenery, looking for something that might engender a good story. The passing Miata will do. "Most embarrassing or wild story in the back of a sports car."

She groans and he immediately cants his body toward her, shifting so he can watch as she parts her lips and clicks her tongue. "Do I have to?"

"Oh, this must be good," he enthuses, rubbing his hands together. "I told you mine."

"Fine," she huffs, sitting straighter in her seat. "My last boyfriend in high school—"

"Grunge rocker boy?"

"No," she says, surprised. "No. Not him. I dumped him in Junior year."

"Bet your Dad was happy."

She shakes her head. "You'd think. But, uh, the story." She takes a deep breath and then laughs a little. "Devon's dad had a Ferrari."

"Ooh, is that why you love mine so much?" he asks, can't help himself.

"No," she replies evenly. "Am I telling this story, or do you want to play twenty questions?"

"We'll do that next," he decides. "So, Devon took you out in his father's Ferrari."

"And we went for a drive up state," she continues with a wave of her hand. "He just wanted to really gun it, so we left the island."

"Did you get pulled over? This doesn't sound that wild."

"Well, we did get pulled over," she admits with a blush.

"Were you—Beckett, were you distracting that boy?" he asks, aghast, his head full of all sorts of inappropriate images of a teenage Kate doing things to a teenage him in a fast moving car.

"I might have been," she says, her voice somewhere between amusement and shame. "So, uh, you know, we got ourselves together before the cop got to us, but still."

"Just the speeding ticket?"

"Which his father made me help payoff, and it was expensive too. So, yeah, my parents didn't like Devon."

Castle figures he'd hate any kid that got Alexis pulled over too. But Alexis would never get pulled over because—he can't even think it. "I'm shocked," he tells her.

Kate laughs. "I told you I had a wild child phase."

"Yeah, but I never figured you for…well, for quite that wild."

She hums and reaches out to prance her fingers along his thigh. He sucks in a breath and she chuckles, withdrawing her hand.

"Tease," he mumbles as she laughs again, throwing her head back against the headrest, giddy with it, with him. "Beautiful tease."

She smiles as she calms down and he watches the road for a few minutes, lost in feeling of this—this openness, this love, this shared history of being terrible kids.

"You know, I think we would have gotten along as kids," he says looking over at her.

"You do?"

"Well, I don't know that we'd have balanced out as well as we do now, but I think I would have liked wild Kate."

"Were you an ass that young?" she asks.

"Are you implying that I was an ass at some point while I've known you?" he gasps, throwing a hand over his heart in mock anguish.

"For the first few months I couldn't decide if I wanted to strangle, stab, or shoot you more," she offers with a grin.

"You mean, when you didn't want to kiss me," he clarifies. He knows he was an absolute pain in the butt. It had been gloriously fun, and so different, with this woman who didn't just swoon, or turn him down, or leap on him.

She bites at her lip and he watches her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Holy crap, she actually, she—

"Really?" he squeaks. She huffs as he reaches across to splay his hand on her thigh. "You liked me back then?"

She growls but lets her hand fall to cover his. "I might have thought you were…interesting."

"Interesting," he repeats. Not his most glowing recommendation, but if it's Kate's way of saying she had the hots for him way back then, he'll take it. Wait, way back—

"It wasn't a one-way street," she mumbles and he feels her fingers slip between his so she can curl her hand onto his.

"I know," he says, wrapping his larger fingers around hers, his hand sandwiched in the heat of her, thigh to palm.

"No," she insists, looking over at him for as long as possible before she has to focus on the road. "No, I meant that it wasn't just—before the third year."

"Before," he repeats, trying to figure out where she's going with it. "Before what we talked about?"

She nods and he feels his mouth go dry. After all the screaming and yelling and fighting—well, in between, really—they'd spent a night really talking, heart to heart. There'd been tears and a few rounds of really, really hot sex in the middle of it, but they'd talked about them, and when they really started, and why they waited. Josh, Gina, Demming, the bullet, the bomb, the case—everything had been laid bare, but apparently there was more to tell.

He waits for her to be ready, waits for her to square her shoulders and squeeze his hand, part her lips, take that breath. "Do you remember the summer you went to the Hamptons?"

Now that it's here, he's not sure he really wants to know this story. He strokes his thumb over her pinky and hums low before managing a quiet, "Yeah."

"I tried to tell you something right before Gina showed up."

Her face is tense, her body rigid in her seat and he feels his stomach fall. "No," he murmurs.

She shakes her head and gives a sudden laugh. "I mean, it sucked," she admits, but she's smiling and bouncing their joined hands against her thigh. "And yeah, I was all ready to tell you that—tell you I thought maybe we could be more, and that I wanted to come to the Hamptons."

He groans and lets his head flop back onto the headrest. "And then—oh, God, really?" She nods and he moans, louder, bringing his free hand up to scrub at his face.

"Hey, don't beat yourself up about it."

"In the span of five minutes, I made us miss two years. Two years!"

She's thrown the blinker before he can open his eyes, his mind spinning with possibilities of lifetimes past—of the them that could be now. Married? Kids? Living together?

When he opens his eyes, they're in a parking area on the side of the highway and she's turned toward him, seatbelt unbuckled. "Castle," she prompts.

He meets her eyes and watches as she brings their hands up to press her lips to his fingers. "Two years," he repeats.

"Can I be honest with you?" she asks and he nods—can't really stop her now, doesn't want to. "I don't think we would have made it."

He feels his jaw hanging and she shakes her head, dropping his hand so she can bring herself closer, so she's draped over the console, one hand supporting her on his thigh, and the other sliding behind his neck.

"Can you imagine what could have happened if we'd been together? The bomb? The shooting?"

"But I would have," he breaks off and searches her eyes, feeling regretful and cheated, and still so happy, still so lucky.

"Would have?" she asks gently.

"I could have been there for you over the summer," he says as he runs his hand over her cheek, trailing down to rest the back of his palm against her heart. "I would have—"

Her lips press against his, silencing him as she scoots closer, half in his lap to free her hands. She grunts into his mouth and shifts, forcing his eyes open so he can take in her predicament, the gear shift pressing into her thigh where she's twisted to reach his mouth.

"Here," he mumbles, maneuvering his arm down to throw his seat back, giving her enough space to shift fully onto his lap, her chest to his back. He chuckles as she locks the door so she can swing around and throw her calves on the console, sitting sideways on his thighs.

They stare at each other as he brushes the hair off of her face, letting his hand linger against her neck. "I wish I could go back and call you," she says, her voice low and a little rough with it all. "I wish I could make that up to you."

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, but she brings her fingers to his lips.

"I wish we could have avoided the last year, and all the secrets and crap," she continues, her eyes full with old hurt and regret he just wants to soothe. "But if we'd gotten together then? I don't think." She pauses and takes a breath, her thumb rubbing across his bottom lip. "I wouldn't have been ready."

He's not sure he agrees, because they're amazing together, but he can't really argue. He wasn't there for either of those summers, doesn't know what happened when he had to leave her to Josh, or to her empty apartment. He likes to think he could have made things easier, could have loved her enough to fix her.

"You holding me up wouldn't have worked long term," she tells him, urging him to meet her eyes. "This? Where I fall apart, and then you fall apart? That's much better. Very healthy."

He laughs, startled, and she grins, scooting forward to rest her head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her. "Yeah?"

He feels her lips at his throat as she nods. He pulls her closer, hardly caring that they're scrunched together in the passenger seat on the side of the highway in Canada. At this rate, they won't make it to Sault Ste. Marie today. Ah well.

She shifts on his lap and trails her lips up his neck. He squirms, his body lighting up at her throaty laugh.

"You think our teenage selves would have gotten along?" she mumbles into his pulse.

"Uh-huh," he manages, his brain fogging over as her hand fiddles with his buttons.

"Care to test that theory?"

She pulls back and finds his eyes with hers, so full of mischief and arousal that he can do nothing but nod and fuse their lips together. He's wrong. He doesn't just like Wild Kate. He loves her. He wants to make love to her, in the front seat of their rental car.

The father of the small family that pulls in next to them doesn't share that opinion, and it's a long fifteen minutes of bumbling through excuses and convincing them not to call the police for public indecency. He thinks it's a little ridiculous, since they were in the car, not out in the open, but Kate elbows him, hard, when he tries to make that point. So he shuts up and lets her sweet talk their way out of it, allows her to usher him back into the car so they can speed off, leaving the scandalized parents behind.

They drive quietly for a long time, and he's not sure whether he should be completely amused or horrified that they just got caught necking in their car by a family of four.

"So, worse than being pulled over?" he asks to break the tension.

She laughs and reaches out to take his hand. "Worse. Didn't get to the good stuff."

He sighs and whacks his head against the seat as she giggles. "You're so mean."

"You're driving tomorrow."


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Gotta hope the writing room at Castle isn't as loud as my apartment.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13:<strong>

Her phone rings as they step onto the curb outside Ripe Restaurant in Sudbury. She shoots him a smile and brings it to her ear, her normal greeting of, "Beckett," oddly comforting, though he's far from on edge.

They shared a margherita pizza and an order of chicken gambiotta and now he's sufficiently stuffed and a little sleepy. She had two cups of coffee and insists that they should still try to reach Sault Ste. Marie tonight, just so they can spend all of tomorrow exploring, rather than driving. Only another four hours, or so, she said.

"Oh, yikes, Alexis," Kate mumbles and he perks up, leaning closer, only to have her push him away.

"What's wrong?" he whispers, ignoring her feeble protests. "Is she okay?"

"She's just fine," Kate says, overly loud, like—like she's letting Alexis know he's there. Oh, jeez. Boy stuff?

"I—" She slaps her hand over his mouth before he can get any more out, and then lets her hand drop, giving him a look. She fishes in her pocket and the keys are in his hand before he can protest. Then she's pushing him in the direction of the car.

Well, he's going to bring the car around, apparently. He trudges off, throwing looks over his shoulder, stealing glimpses of her swaying there on the street, rocking on her feet. She laughs once and catches him looking. She waves him away and he can't help but laugh with her.

He smiles his way to the car, even though his daughter is asking Kate about something that deserves a "Yikes." She's calling Kate. That's huge, and such a strange relief. He wants to know, wants to be her go-to person, but he knows—Kate and his mother and even Meredith have forced him to know—that she needs guidance he can't give her.

And honestly, he'd rather Kate give her advice than his mother, or, God forbid, her mother. Meredith's a good…person. But a mother, she is not. Kate has this level-headed, girly, responsible outlook on life, and he wouldn't mind if she imparts that to his daughter. The secondary level of it all—that his girlfriend and his daughter are close—tugs at his heart and warms his body as he drives the block back to the restaurant.

He pulls up beside her and she holds up a finger, nodding her head to something Alexis says before she smiles and says something that reads suspiciously like an, "I love you." He'd ask, but it might ruin it. And the smile on her face now, soft, besotted, nearly maternal—he won't disrupt that for anything.

"What's up?" he asks instead as she slips into the passenger seat. Looks like he's driving. Score.

"Your lovely daughter is being sexiled from now until tomorrow morning," she says nonchalantly as she buckles in.

He finds he may have stopped breathing for a second. "She's what?" He's fairly certain sexiled means she's not the one having sex, but just the idea of the two in the same sentence is enough to get him riled up.

Kate laughs and reaches out for his hand, giving it a squeeze. "She's being kicked out of her room for the night. Relax."

He blows out a breath and turns to look at her, narrowing his eyes. "You did that on purpose."

"It's not my fault that you're too old to know what sexiling is," she shrugs, tapping his hand. "Now, do you want to switch, or are you good to drive?"

"I am not too old," he grouses as he puts the car into gear and pulls out onto the street. "We can switch at the next rest stop." She nods and settles down in her seat. He makes it three minutes. "Her roommate is sexiling her?"

Kate laughs softly. "It's normal."

"But it's the middle of September! How can she already…how can she already need to sexile my innocent kid?" he asks, so uncomfortable with the very thought of it.

"Be glad she was sexiled," Kate says, reaching out to pat his arm. "Lanie's cousin told us a few stories of being, let's say, privy to activities when she definitely shouldn't have been sleeping in the next bed."

Ugh. No. They do that? Kids do that? "People do that?"

She laughs again and he has half a mind to tweak her ear. "Relax," she says, stroking over his skin. Damn woman knows his tells. "It's not a big deal. I'm sure it happened to you; I'm sure you did it to your roommates."

"I was a guy," he objects.

"What, and I never had sex in college?" she tosses back.

"Stop insinuating that Alexis is old enough for sex and sexiling and…stuff," he whines, thoroughly aware that he sounds about three-years-old. But she's his baby girl—emphasis on the _baby_.

"Alexis is a smart young woman. She's not promiscuous, and right now, she's camped out in the lounge on her floor, wearing ear buds and reading her Philosophy textbook. Calm down, Daddy."

It helps. It does. But still. "I just want her to—"

Kate squeezes his forearm and he glances over to find her smiling at him, all soft lines and bright eyes. "You're a good dad, and she's gonna to be just fine. I promise." She maneuvers over to press a kiss to his cheek before settling back and he feels his irritation ebbing away. "You raised a good kid."

"She's pretty great," he agrees, switching his gaze from the road to his girlfriend. Maybe she should have driven after all. "But I got lucky."

"I don't know," Kate replies as she toes off her shoes and squishes around to get comfortable. "I think it has a lot to do with you."

His daughter practically raised herself. He likes to take some credit; he knows he cared, and sent her to the best schools, got her lessons, was always there for her to talk to, but Alexis? Alexis is magic. "She popped out old and grown up and smart," he admits. "And I really just spend my time trying to keep up with her."

Kate laughs and rolls her head to look at him. "Of all the times to be modest, you choose now? That kid adores you—absolutely adores you. And I know I haven't really been close with her long, but the number of times she quotes you? I should start keeping a list."

"Really?" he asks before he can stop himself, or quell the utterly hopeful, sappy quality in his voice.

"Really," she assures him. "Rick, you raised an amazing daughter."

She's not allowed to make him cry. Really, she's not. It's unfair. He clenches his jaw and takes a few deep breaths before managing a, "Thanks," as he keeps his eyes steadily on the road.

He hears her let out a long breath and her hand falls from his arm to his thigh, squeezing once before she pulls back, withdrawing her hands into her lap to fiddle with her iPod. He appreciates the silence—the change to get himself together. He must really love this woman for her words to do this to him. He can't remember Gina or Meredith ever bringing him to tears. He actually can't remember the last time anyone but Kate told him he was a good parent. She's said it before, but never like this, never with him this way. Never when it seemed to matter so much.

After a few minutes, she turns on the stereo system, letting a low cello croon through the car, followed by the rest of a string quartet and a marimba.

"What's this?" he asks, glancing over as she smiles and gazes out the window.

"Spectrum of the Sky, by Break of Reality," she replies softly. "They're a kind of alternative classical group."

"So, somewhere between Dvorak and Taylor Swift, huh?"

She chuckles softly. "Sure."

The sky grows dim with clouds as they drive along the highway, a mass of shrubs and low trees on either side as far as the eye can see. It's not exactly scintillating scenery, but the music's good and he's got the girl; he can't complain.

They watch the lake fly by as the light begins to fade, Kate's face turned toward his to watch the water go by. She's quiet and every so often she reaches out to stroke over his neck, caress his ear, run her fingertips over his arm. So even as it starts to rain, he feels at peace, driving in the low light of dusk as the highway stretches on before them.

"Do you think you'd ever want more children?" she asks quietly as he turns up the wipers and flicks on his fog lights.

Okay, maybe not at peace. He swallows and looks over to find her with her face turned toward him, but eyes looking out the windshield, brave but scared. That's fair. It kind of feels like someone punched him in the gut.

"You don't have to," she adds when he realizes it's been a good minute since she asked. His brain just doesn't want to cooperate, filled as it is with so many images of her holding their child, her dead in an alley, him holding their baby in front of a tombstone, their baby walking, Kate laughing—too many. Too wonderful. Too terrifying. Too much.

"No—" he says quickly.

"No?" The pure heartbreak in her voice, concealed but palpable devastates him.

"No, no, I meant—no, I can answer," he rambles out. Great.

"Oh," she mumbles. Her hands twist in her lap and he sees her lip disappear between her teeth.

"Do you want kids, Kate?" he asks quietly, because that's the bigger question. If he wants them, and she doesn't, then they won't have kids. Simple. But if she does—

"I asked you first."

He sighs and glances at her to find her there with her lips quirked even as her brows furrow. "I've already had a kid," he offers.

"So you don't have a dying need to do it again," she assumes, her voice low and threaded with something he can't define.

"No," he corrects, reaching out to slide his hand down her arm until he finds her hand, pulling it from her lap. "No, I've already had a kid, so I know what to expect, whether or not I enjoyed it, how amazing it is."

Her fingers squeeze his and he waits, waits for her to find her own words. 'Do you want kids with me?' threatens to tumble from his lips, but he refrains. They've only been here, in this tentative place, for a week; it's too soon, and not soon enough.

"I think I do," she murmurs, finally meeting his gaze before he has to turn back to the road, has to keep track of the intersections popping up as they enter Blind River. Oh, how he wishes they were doing this when he wasn't driving.

"You do?"

She grips his hand tightly and pulls toward her chest, covering his larger hand with her smaller ones. "I—" she pauses and licks her lips. "They're something I've always thought about, for later, you know?"

"Always in the plan, but never concrete?" he fills in, watching as she nods.

"It's hard to think about when you're—when you do what I do," she adds, her chest rising and falling against their hands. "But," she trails off and stares at their hands.

"But now that the case is over?" he prompts gently, glancing over as he settles back into the slow lane. Had they been in the passing lane? He really shouldn't be driving.

"Now it's…more real," she sighs, dragging her legs up onto the seat, trapping their hands between her knees and chest. "And not now, but sometime, you know?"

"I do," he says softly, lightly knocking their hands against the bottom of her thighs.

"Do you?" she asks after a minute.

"Do I know?"

"Do you want kids?" she repeats, more bravery in her voice this time—more belief.

"With the right person? Yes. Yes, I do," he tells her, watching the road but desperate to see her face. He's just not sure he could tear himself away if he lets himself look.

"With the right person," she repeats. He thought it might be too forward to say, 'with you,' but apparently not, because she's too quiet, and too soft, and too timid. He can't screw this up.

"Kate," he urges, glancing over at her. "With you. Kids with you."

"Pull over," she says as she clutches at him, curling around their hands.

"Okay."

He follows another car as they move to the right, forced off the highway by some partition. The Lakeview Inn looms next to them and he pulls into the parking lot, letting the traffic behind him continue along the detour. He turns the car off and the music stops, leaving them in silence, his hand still trapped in hers, his other elbow bent awkwardly, his fingers wrapped around the keys.

"Not for a while," she whispers, slowly bringing her eyes to meet his in the low light from the street lamp above the car. "Maybe a year or two, even."

"Thought there'd be some stuff in between," he nods, squeezing her hand. "Dates and work and other things."

"Yeah," she breathes out, lost in his eyes; he can't look away. He's mesmerized by this woman who wants to have his children—who wants to marry him, and live with him, and raise a family with him.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" he asks, gesturing behind them toward the motel, with its bright blue roof and white siding.

"Slumming it a little after the Marriott, isn't it?" she asks, smiling at him.

"Don't really care right now," he tells her honestly. All he cares about is getting her into one of those rooms, ordering in from somewhere they'll find on his phone, and spending the entire night in bed with her. He's going to marry her.

She laughs lightly and nods, yanking on him until he unbuckles and leans over to fuse their lips together. Her hands release his to cradle his cheeks, fingers pressing into his skin. He breaks the kiss when his lungs stop keeping up and he can't take in enough air as he can Kate.

"Someday," she breathes out against his lips.

"Don't have a ring with me," he mumbles, his mouth ahead of his brain, ahead of his lungs.

She laughs breathlessly, one of her hands sliding around his neck, hanging on. "Good," she says.

"Good?"

"Someday, Castle. Not this month," she clarifies, smiling as she presses her nose to his. "See how long it takes for my habits to break you."

"Nothing's going to break me."

They both startle, bumping their foreheads together as a construction vehicle bangs to life across the street where the road crew is packing up for the night.

"Except maybe your forehead. Jeez, you're hard headed."

"Not earning points right now," she grumbles, reaching up to rub at his forehead, since he's already made his way to hers.

They breathe together, their heart rates accelerated, panic slowly receeding into comfort. She presses against him and then pulls away after a minute, kissing his knuckles as he brushes down her cheek.

"Come on," she says quietly, unbuckling and opening her door. "Let's get a room."

He grins and follows her out, grabbing their bags as she waits at the back of the car. He plops them down on the ground, even as the rain drizzles down around them, and reaches for her. She comes willingly, stepping into his arms, her face coming to rest against his neck, her arms wrapped around him, hands fisted in his light jacket.

"I love you," she mumbles against his skin.

"Love you too," he whispers, bringing one hand up to cradle her skull as she mouths along his jaw. "Let's go in."

She nods and nips at his lips once before stepping away, grabbing her bag before he can. He frowns as she grins, following her into the building. She walks up to the desk and he joins her, his hand splayed over the small of her back.

She leans into him as he gets them a room, frowning as the young man behind the counter hands the key to Kate with a wink. She smiles at him and then leans into Castle, her side flush with his.

"We'll enjoy it," she promises as the kid's eyes dim. Serves him right. She's Castle's, no one else's. "Come on," she murmurs, guiding him back out of the building and along to their door.

He crowds her as she unlocks the door, listening to her quiet laughter as they tumble through the door. It's small, and a little cramped, and the queen bed has a garish, red and blue comforter. But it's clean, and it's theirs, and she's somehow gotten the bags into the corner.

She sidles up to him and wraps herself around him, sliding up to find his lips as he lets the door fall shut behind them, latching it clumsily as her hands glide over his chest.

"Come chase someday with me," she whispers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Honestly, I don't know that I could maintain that amount of tension.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14:<strong>

If Nikki and Rook were chasing a suspect down along the Seine, what are the chances she'd be willing to jack a small scull and row after him? Who's he kidding? She's Nikki Heat. And he knows he'd do it, so Rook definitely would.

He gave up trying to distance himself from his fictional counterpart a while ago. In fact, he'll have to go through this damn thing with a fine-tooth comb to make sure he hasn't actually stolen too many of his own words—his words to Kate this past summer—things spoken in the dead of night into her hair because she couldn't meet his eyes and he couldn't bare to see the pain in hers.

Kate shifts beside him and rolls over, her arm flopping over his laptop. He laughs softly and thanks his fast reflexes for saving just before she accidentally clicked him out of Word. Her nose scrunches up and she lets out a small snort before smacking her lips a few times. He's disgustingly besotted by this adorable woman. It's a little sad.

"Wha'reya doin?" she mumbles, blinking her eyes open as she retracts her arm, obviously uncomfortable with it plastered over his laptop.

"Was writing, but you made me quit," he whispers, reaching out to smooth an errant curl from her face. "Go back to sleep."

"Why are you writing?" she asks, snuggling closer as he slides the laptop onto the side table, shutting it gently. "Stopping?"

"Bed just got more interesting," he says as he shuffles down to lay beside her, flattening his backrest of pillows as he goes. She huffs as one of them slides over her face.

He chuckles and tosses it away, replacing it with his hand as he cups her cheek. "M'not interesting?" she wonders, pressing closer so their legs tangle together.

She's such a cuddler. He'd never have guessed, but he loves it about her. "You are, but I thought staring at you for the past three hours might have exceeded even my limits."

She hums in agreement and turns her cheek to kiss his hand. "Having trouble sleeping?" He nods and smiles as she runs her fingers over his arm. "Something wrong?"

"No," he assures her quickly. He's just a child, that's all. "I'm excited."

She laughs, the sound loud and free, her hand curling around his tee shirt. "You're such a kid," she manages as she snuggles closer and brushes their noses together. "Excited about the train."

"I like trains," he offers inanely, grinning as she laughs again, so very relaxed in their amazing bed at the Comfort Inn just down the block from the Agawa Canyon train station. "They're cool."

"So cool you can't sleep?"

He leans in and presses their lips together in a light kiss. She's sluggish against him, but so warm and soft, and when he pulls away, she's watching him with such amusement that he can't possibly stop the grin on his face.

"That, and I got a little inspired, maybe," he admits.

"Inspired?"

"I am spending 24/7 with my muse right now."

She scrunches her face at him but she's smiling and he feels her fingers dancing along his arm. "So what are Nikki and Rook up to this time?"

"Nikki's weighing the moral implications of stealing a boat to follow a suspect down the Seine," he tells her, watching as she listens with thinly veiled rapt attention. She is such a fangirl. Might be a little cruel to get that out of her tonight—putting her at a sleepy disadvantage.

"They're in Paris?" she asks, eyes wide and sparkling. "You took them to Paris?"

"Yeah?"

She opens her mouth a few times and her eyes move back and forth as she thinks. "How—why are they—she's with the NYPD," she decides, bringing her confused gaze back to his. "How the hell do they end up in Paris?"

"You'll find out," he says automatically. Huh, wrong answer.

She pounces on him, straddling him with a deft accuracy that should not be possible two minutes after waking up. But he can't focus on her surprising agility, not when she's tickling him. Tickling him! That's her retaliation?

"Ka—Kate," he pants out, trying to twist out of her ridiculously strong grip on his hips. "Uncle. Uncle!"

"Tell me the story," she demands, unrelenting.

Tears leak out of his eyes as he laughs and tries to grab at her hands, or roll them over, or gain some kind of leverage. But damn, the woman is strong and sneaky and so ungodly sexy.

"Can't. Can't breathe," he cries out, laughing so hard his stomach starts to cramp. "Kate!"

She laughs and eases up, gentling down to a caress that he's too winded to enjoy, her fingers light and soft against his chest.

"Who knew Richard Castle could be taken down by tickling."

"Obviously no one who's been a victim of yours. My God, woman," he wheezes, sprawled out beneath her, thoroughly spent.

"Tell me the story, Castle," she insists, digging her fingers into his flesh, halfway between a tickle and a claw.

"You don't want to be surprised?" he asks, delighted and confused. She's not normally one to skip to the last page of anything.

She looks down at him, hovering there in a tank top and a pair of his boxers, hair tousled and eyes over-bright with sleep. He watches as she nibbles on her lip, considering him, her head tilted to the side in thought.

"I—" she begins. She huffs and runs a finger along the line of his throat, contemplative rather than arousing. "I guess not."

She meets his eyes and shakes her head with a small smile. "You sure?" he asks, open to the idea of telling her.

The more he imagines it, with her there, cuddled against him, letting him tell her a story—their extended story—the more it appeals to him. But on the other hand, he wants her to read it, wants her to the be the first one. He wants her to pad into his office and smack him, or kiss him, or cry, or laugh—wants to see her face once she's finished that final chapter.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to sit next to you while you write my favorite story?" she grumbles out. Her eyes widen a second later, and he thanks everything he can think of for sleepy, open Kate. Then again, it kind of looks like she's about to run and hide in the bathroom.

"I'm guessing really frustrating?" he says, reaching up to cover one of her hands, which have gone slightly rigid on his chest.

To her credit, she's doing an admirable job of keeping her cool. But the gentle flare of her nostrils and that extra millimeter of white around her eyes give her away. He waits her out, overly eager to tease it out of her, but somehow aware that he'd ruin something if he makes fun of her for it. Vulnerable—she looks vulnerable.

"Yeah," she sighs, finally meeting his eyes. "Infuriating, really."

"I didn't really see this as a problem when I started writing about you," he tells her, leaving her hands to skate his palms up her sides.

She slackens over him and he tugs her down against his chest, smiling as she presses her face into his shirt. Apparently she's vulnerable and shy. This trip was the best idea ever. He gets to learn so much about her, commits it all to memory.

They're quiet for a long while as he absently strokes up and down her back while her fingers toy with his sleeve and play with his hair. He thinks maybe she's fallen asleep, and the warm weight of her is lulling him down, squelching out the excitement and inspiration and random adrenaline, turning him into a large slab of sleepy mush beneath his stunning woman.

"My mom read your books," she whispers and his eyes pop open, his heart stuttering in his chest. "She liked them, kept raving about them," she continues, leaving his sleeve to trail her hand up to cover his heart. "And out of principle, I didn't read them."

He laughs, startled, and feels her smiling. "I'm hurt?"

She shakes her head against him with a small hum. "Don't be. It was our thing. Advice, boys, hair—I was rather willing to take her opinions on that. Books? If she liked it, I wouldn't read it. And I was going through a Russian phase at the time; your books were too puny."

"Oh, man, were you one of those girls toting around Tolstoy? No guy actually wants to carry your books if they're that big, you know."

She whacks him gently and he chuckles, winding his hand up to card through her hair. "Figured that out on my own," she offers after a moment. "Small purses and California shorts do not mix with big books."

"See, mine come in pocket-size," he says, laughing as she bumps him with her nose.

"So, yeah, Mom and I did not see eye to eye on you and your mysteries."

She's quiet for a moment, breathing against him. He feels her open her mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. "What changed?" he asks gently.

She shudders and then curls her hand into his shirt, bunching the fabric, pulling it taught over his shoulder. "She died."

He lets out a breath and hugs her to him, weaving through her hair to find the back of her neck as one of her legs slides up over his hip, searching for her own chest. But he's there, and she doesn't have to curl into a ball all on her own.

"We didn't—we didn't have DVR when she died," she says quietly, her voice a little rough and tight. He feels her hand leave his chest to swipe at her cheek and he bends his head up to press a kiss to the crown of her head. "So I couldn't watch her favorite TV shows, and I asked my dad for," she pauses to suck in a breath. "For home videos but he couldn't—"

She trails off and he feels like he can see her crouched by her father's armchair, easing a bottle of Jack Daniels out of his hand, teary-eyed, asking for tapes of her mother. He hopes Jim tried, smiled, something. But the way she breathes against him now, in short gasps that speak of suppressed sobs—they tell him that maybe Jim couldn't talk, couldn't hear her, couldn't listen. They tell him so much and not enough.

"So all I had were your books. The pictures hurt, and talking to Dad—" she breaks off and shakes her head. "But the books were real, and she had this blanket—this big, black fuzzy thing."

"It's on your couch," he murmurs, picturing the black, furry blanket he draped over her one night when she passed out as they poured over evidence, squashed together on the sofa.

She nods. "It smelled like her," she whispers. "And I took it into her office and this armchair, and she had your books on her shelf so I just…read."

Read. Read his books after her mother died. Read them because they were, they are, _he_ is the last connection she had to her mother. It swells in him, a mix of love and wonder and crushing grief. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

"Your books were my mom for a long time," she breathes against him.

This time he does shudder, can't help it. "I love you," is all he can manage, and it hardly seems enough, not after this. What she's handing him, telling him—never in his wildest dreams did he think his books meant this much to her.

He feels her press her lips to his collarbone, lingering there for a long moment before she pulls back and rises up to meet his eyes. "I came to a signing once."

He feels his eyes grow as she sniffles and smiles slyly. "You…what?"

"Waited for a hour and got up there and kind of froze," she continues, smiling more now. "And you were actually really nice about it."

"You? Freeze?" he repeats, baffled by the very thought. "I can't—you came to a signing and I don't remember?" How could he not remember? She'd have been younger, with the short hair, probably. How could he not remember her? Surely he did. Surely it was just his mind playing tricks…for four years.

She leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek before she laughs against him. "I don't expect you to remember."

"But," he protests. He wants to. He really, really wants to.

"You smiled and asked for my name, where I was from, got me comfortable enough to smile when you handed it back," she tells him, her lips caressing his skin with every word, her warm breath calming his tense neck. How can he honestly not remember her? "I was nothing special," she adds, trying, he supposes, to soothe him.

"Nothing special?" he lets out, a little louder than he probably should. "You're you."

She laughs and squeezes his neck where she's curled her hand around his tendons. "I wasn't me to you then."

"You were still you. And you were…were you still hurting?"

She's quiet for a pause and he feels her inhale against him, her body soft and tight and tense at once. "Have I ever stopped?" she asks, and he thinks maybe she's asking herself more than him. "But I was…less. I hurt less then. It was maybe, gosh, five years before you showed up?"

That puts her at about 24, he figures. A few less lines, maybe. Maybe she wore flats that day. Maybe she wasn't his Kate then. But she was. She's always been her. How could he have missed her?

"Stop," she says, her tired voice a dull command. "Please don't beat yourself up because you don't remember one day almost eight years ago."

He sighs and nods, brushing their noses together as she finds his eyes. "Okay," he concedes. "Okay, I can't remember you then."

She smiles. "Good. I kind of like the idea that for you, the first time we met was when I brought you in for questioning."

He laughs. "You were very sexy."

"And you were such a jack ass," she replies, affection lacing her words, even as she shakes her head.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he offers. It tumbles out and they stare at each other. Was he sorry before she told him all of it? Before he knew he was something important in her life before she was in his?

"Don't be," she decides, stroking her thumb beneath his eye. "I may have kind of hated your guts, but I also kinda liked you, just a bit."

"Liked me, liked me?" he asks, catching her tone, catching her direction, catching her as they fall back into familiar territory.

She rolls her eyes and purses her lips, but nods, giving him clarification they both know he doesn't need. She plays along anyway. "Yeah, Castle. I liked you, liked you."

"Awesome," he says, grinning as she lets out a sigh befitting of paperwork and Beckett and New York.

But she kisses him, there in Sault Ste. Marie, in the dark middle of the night, with her body pressing against his.

"Can I read the galley copy?" she whispers as they pull apart and he peppers kisses along her jaw, gently rolling them over.

He opens his eyes and leans back to find hers. "First one," he promises.

She smiles and reaches up to feather her fingers along his temple. "I missed it last summer," she says as her hand slides to cup his cheek.

"I didn't know if you'd—you needed space," he offers lamely, awkwardly.

She pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, running her other hand along his shoulder. "This time I'd like you close," she says. "There for questions."

"Really?" he asks, surprised, and pleased as something soothes over a year-old wound. "You want me to watch you read my book?"

"Too weird for you?"

"Isn't it too weird for you?" he tosses back.

She laughs and arches up to catch his lips briefly before falling back to the bed. "I've gotten used to you watching me do all sorts of things."

He snickers before he can stop himself. She's trying to have a real moment. Get it together, man. "Good," he mumbles, hoping she'll take it in stride.

"And now you can watch me go to sleep," she says, grinning as she drops her hands and brings her arms back behind her head, shutting her eyes playfully.

"Ka-ate," he whines, bending to lave at the spot just below her jaw.

She holds out for about a minute, but he feels her start to squirm, her hips wiggling beneath his about ten second before her arms snap out to wrap around his shoulders, one hand on the back of his neck to yank him up to her mouth.

"You know," she gasps as they pull apart to tear his shirt off. "Never thought I'd be in bed with you way back then," she admits while he grips the bottom of her tank top and guides it over her head.

"Does it," he starts, stalling to pull her bottom lip between his, sinking onto her as she lets out that little moan he loves so much. "You happy?" he manages. It's less eloquent than he wants, but it'll have to do.

She guides him back to meet her eyes, her chest heaving against his. "I am," she says softly, frank and earnest and tender. "Thank you."

He bends to press his lips to her nose, pulling away to kiss her eyelids where she's closed her eyes, breathing slowly. "Don't thank me for loving you," he whispers, feeling like at some point they cracked open his chest, and he's leaking out his heart.

"No," she says, her breath warm at his lips as he rests his forehead against hers. "Thank you for being more than a guy on a book jacket."

(…)

"Do you want the window?"

"You sure?" he asks, eyeing the seat eagerly even as he tries to hold onto those manners his mother taught him years ago.

She laughs and shoves on his shoulder, pushing him into the seat so he can scoot across and claim the best view out the window. They're going to ride across and into Agawa Canyon and then spend two hours exploring before heading back to the city, and he really shouldn't be this excited, but he can't help it.

"You really like trains," she says as she settles next to him, squishing around to get comfortable. He wonders absently if being so thin is ever uncomfortable for her—if maybe last summer sitting and standing and carrying things dug into her tender stomach, her emaciated figure.

"I do," he replies, dragging himself out of it. This is not the day to wonder over the miracles of Kate's health. "But come on, you're excited too."

She regards him with a blank face for a moment before a slow smile spreads across her cheeks. "Maybe a little."

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asks, eyeing her thin jacket—leather, but hardly robust, though it does hug every single one of her curves.

"I'll be just fine," she assures him, giving him a look that definitely telegraphs, 'leave it.'

The train shudders into life and he watches expectantly out the window, even though the view is of the platform and the few relatives waving goodbye to excited children. They'll be back tonight, but it does feel a little bit like a voyage—a full day on the train, seeing the wonders of nature. Really, when was the last time he went on a real vacation? He's thoroughly too poetic.

"Did you pack a camera?" she asks a few minutes later, hands searching through the small backpack she brought with them.

"I have my phone," he says, pulling it out to snap a photo of her there next to him, brown leather coat open, shades tipping on her head as she brushes her french braid back over her shoulder.

"Don't do that," she says, eyes still glued to the bottom of the bag as her hand searches.

"Do what?" he asks innocently, turning his phone in his palm so it looks like he's just searching the web. "Did you know that ducks are monogamous?"

She looks over at him with her brow arched, not taking it. "Come up with a better cover. And yes, everyone knows that."

He shrugs, unrepentant, and pockets his phone again, reaching out to stall her fruitless search. He doesn't remember her packing a camera back at her apartment.

"Our phones'll do. The cameras are pretty good."

She sighs and gives up, settling back and dropping the bag between their feet. "You're right."

He grins and turns to look back out the window, resisting the urge to gloat. It would be petty, and he doesn't want to start the day by being an ass. But then all thoughts of gloating are pushed from his head as they begin speeding along the countryside. They sat on the left side of the train, and so they get to see the lake flashing by, geese flying low over the water. The sun sparkles along the choppy surface, glinting out in all directions, and he hears her suck in a breath next to him.

"It's gorgeous," she mumbles, scooting closer to rest her chin on his shoulder as he angles his body to get a better view.

She wraps her arms around his neck, wrists crossing over his chest and he smiles as she presses a kiss to his skin before resting her head beside his.

"Good choice?" he asks, reaching up to squeeze her hand.

"Very good," she whispers. "Now be quiet and watch the nature."

"Yes, dear," he says, laughing as she nips at his ear. Very good choice indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Castle OR have control over the ABC schedule. Sigh.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15:<strong>

She wanders off as he's chatting with the conductor who stepped out into the luscious green meadow with them. All around, the trees are changing colors, the forest at the edges of the clearing a wash of reds and rusts, yellows and browns. It's calm and peaceful and so beautiful. Despite the scenery, he finds himself riveted by the conductor's explanation of torque and streamlining until the man excuses himself, leaving Castle at the edge of the field, alone with the glory of nature all around him.

He's Kateless.

He spins around, looking for the flash of brown and jeans, but can't seem to find her. He supposes it's a testament to passing time that he doesn't automatically go into panic mode. Maybe it's also the little boy laughing as he flops down in the grass with his mother, squealing as she blows raspberries on his stomach. Maybe it's the fact that they're at the bottom of a canyon, looking out on a magnificent lake with an enormous, waterfall made of hundreds of small shoots of water.

Or maybe it's the realization that he knows where she is. He finds her staring out at the glistening water, a lone figure at the edge of the lake, sunglasses down over her face, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

"Hey," he says as he approaches. She startles and then turns to look at him, her cheeks rosy from the slight chill as her face splits in an enormous smile.

"Hey," she murmurs when he reaches her, stepping up to stand beside her. "Get all your techno stuff?"

"Trains are interesting," he defends as she laughs quietly. They speak in near whispers, unwilling to sully the pristine calm before them. "You wandered off."

"Saw the glimmer of the water," she explains turning her face back to the lake. "Kinda got taken with it."

He nods in understanding and watches as a falling leaf hits the surface, emanating ripples out around it, the stillness broken in small shimmering waves. She bends down suddenly and hurtles a rock out into the lake. It skips four times before plopping into the water and he turns to her, astounded as she grins.

"You're so hot," he says, letting it fall from his lips without censure.

She laughs, throwing her head back before tilting her glasses off her face to raise her eyebrow at him. "Really?"

"Teach me?" he asks eagerly, bending down to find a smooth stone.

"You don't know how?" she wonders as she picks another stone, bending back up to stand facing him.

He shrugs, suddenly feeling shy. "Never really got out into nature as a kid," he offers.

Her gaze turns tender and she moves to stand at his side, shoulder bumping his. "Martha wasn't big on camping?"

He laughs, struck by the image of his mother in chiffon, trying to start a fire for a seven-year-old him. It's probably for the best. He did like to wander off.

"We spent summers doing Summer Stock before I was old enough to stay home with friends, or spend the summers at boarding school," he says as he extends his arm and cocks his wrist, tossing the rock as horizontally as he can manage. It flings into the water with a depressing spalsh, no skips to be seen. "I can paint a mean set, but rock skipping? Not really my thing."

"Here," she says lightly, moving behind him as she slips her rock into his hand. "You've got to get the right angle on it. More frisbee than curve ball—use a little more arm."

He grins to himself, images of a night in the shooting gallery flipping through his head as they bend and curl their arms together. Her soft chant of, "One, two, three," tickles his ear and he releases the rock, watching as it skips twice across the calm surface before falling into the water.

"Ha," he says quietly, triumphant, but not nearly so much as he is pleased by her warm presence at his back—the glide of her body as she arches up to rest her chin on his shoulder.

"You're a very good student," she breathes against his neck and he shudders to the sound of her laughter. Apparently he's not the only one who remembers that night.

They sway together for a moment, and he's about to break the silence when he hears the sound of giggles and tiny feet hurtling toward him. He's not really sure how he does it, because he's honestly not a quick guy—more footballs dropped than caught—but he swings around and scoops the little guy up before he sprints into the water.

The little boy in blue overalls from the meadow blinks at him, confused and shocked while Kate watches them. She's rubbing her arm and he wonders if he hurt her spinning around like that, but they catch sight of the mother running toward them before he has the chance to ask.

His attention is brought back to the little boy when the blonde, curly-haired imp tries to escape over his shoulder. "Hey, buddy," he grunts, trying to keep the toddler in her arms, but the boy is persistent.

In less than 30 seconds, the kid's over his shoulder and dangling by his feet while Kate laughs, extending her arms to take the little gymnast.

"Hey, squirmy," she coos, taking the boy from him, pulling a face when the little guy realizes that he's just not going to reach the water today. "Look, there's mom," Kate adds, pointing toward the woman jogging up to them, blonde hair pulled back in a messy pony-tail, blue eyes wide and panicked.

"Oh, thank God," she exclaims, coming to halt as Kate sways on her feet, bouncing the toddler even as he struggles in her arms, still determined to get to the lake. "He's all about running now. And he's fast," she pants, reaching out to take her son from Kate.

"I remember that," Castle tells the woman, smiling at her as her son squeals and wraps his arms around her neck, babbling, "Mama," and, "Water," in quick succession. "How old is he?"

"About sixteen months," she gets out, laughing as she gently dislodges her son's hands as he tries to use her face for paintless finger painting.

"Yeah, the running's pretty awesome around then," Castle agrees, startling as Kate leans into his side.

He lifts his arm to wrap around her shoulders and looks down to watch her smile at the little boy, who promptly hides in his mother's neck.

"And he's a huge flirt," the woman adds with a grin. The little guy peeks out at Kate and quickly ducks back down. "How old are your kids?" she asks, looking between them.

He expects Kate to stiffen, but she merely melts against him, shaking her head lightly. "We don't have any, but he's got a daughter who just started at Columbia as a freshman."

Pride—that's pride in her voice. He doesn't stop the urge to drop a kiss on her forehead as they watch the woman sway on her feet, nodding in understanding.

"Oh, I just figured, since you made such a good team with the rescue and retrieve," she offers, bouncing her son a little. "Thank you, again. I didn't manage to grab a change of clothes when I packed the bag this morning, and he would have been miserable on the ride back."

"He's got good reflexes," Kate says, nudging into Castle's side with a grin. "I'm surprised, actually," she adds, smirking up at him.

"See if I save your candy when you spill it on the train later," he grumbles while the two women laugh. "Dad instincts, I guess," he gives as explanation. He's rather impressed with himself, to tell the truth, but he shouldn't fuel the fire.

"Columbia?" the woman asks, brushing back a lock of hair so little hands can't reach it.

"She didn't want to go too far from the city," Castle says, laughing as Kate squeezes his waist. "Well, I didn't want her to, and they had the best programs."

"And she can keep up with her internship with the ME in my Precinct," Kate adds.

"What?" he exclaims, shooting her a look. "Wait, what?"

She meets his gaze, her eyes wide. "I—uh, thought she told you?"

"I thought she was taking the semester off," he replies, thoroughly confused. Alexis told him she was going to spend her whole first semester just at college—that maybe she shouldn't try to balance a job too, even though she loved working with Dr. Parish.

"She was, but Lanie said she was back at the Precinct when we talked yesterday," Kate says quietly, her fingers stroking over his side. "I assumed you knew."

"I—" he huffs out a breath and then turns back to the woman watching their exchange, curious and somehow nostalgic, if he's reading her right. "Sorry," he mumbles.

She laughs. "Don't sweat it. I might take the running over…is your daughter working at a police precinct in New York? Sounds dangerous."

Her son laughs and claps his hands as Kate sags into Castle's side. "What Alexis does isn't that dangerous," she tells her, reaching up to twine her fingers with his, twitching on her shoulder. "The Medical Examiners show up after the fact."

Not that dangerous, other than the time Gains stole a body while Alexis was one room over, or that time when they went to a body and nearly got ambushed by a gang. He won't even touch the emotional trauma Alexis has suffered—the innocence she's lost, staring at dead bodies, watching Lanie hack people up. Oh, jeez, will Alexis get to do that? Does she need a medical degree to cut people up? He doesn't want her to have blood on her hands.

"Hey," Kate says softly, breaking him out of it.

"I take it he worries more than you," the woman says with a small smile. "I know the papa grizzly thing."

"Your husband's not a dare devil like your son?" Kate asks, her fingers soft and strong between his, calming him down.

The woman laughs, jostling her son, who joins in. Man, he misses babies. They're just so much fun, and so simple. No blood. No internships. No boys, or college, or dating, or medical examining.

"My husband's a surgeon," she explains. "And on his off time, he likes to take us out to the coast to surf, so, sort of, I guess. But with this guy? If I don't stop him, he'll wrap him in bubble wrap."

Castle laughs, oddly comforted by that. "I can understand the desire," he says.

Kate shakes her head. "Please don't tell me I'm going to have to be the fun parent," she groans.

Both of them freeze and the woman smiles that irritating smile of someone who gets it. Though, as Kate's hand restarts its circles on his hip, maybe the smile's not so bad. Actually, the smile is great. Kate just—wow.

"No, no, I promise. I'll get down and dirty. It's when they grow up that I have an issue," he assures her, laughing as she stiffens again. If she gets to toss it out like some foregone conclusion, he gets to play with fire too.

"Honeymoon?" the woman asks, glancing at their hands. "Or trip," she amends quickly.

"Honeymoon of sorts," he offers, laughing as Kate pinches his side. "First vacation from work in a while."

"You work at the precinct too, right? Are you both detectives?"

"I am," Kate agrees. "He's my partner."

"In all senses of the word," Castle interjects, just for the little huff it gets from Kate.

"Be civil," she warns.

"So you're not a detective but you, uh, help out? You—this is going to sound crazy," the woman starts, shaking her head. "But you look very familiar, and your story sounds…"

"Like it was written by a mystery writer?" Kate suggests. "We get that a lot."

"You're Richard Castle," she announces triumphantly. "I knew you looked familiar. And that would make you Nikki Heat?"

Castle opens his mouth to explain, but Kate beats him to it. "As much as anyone could be, I think. Sure."

He's gaping, but he really doesn't care. She's never admitted to that before. She's never—does she like that she's—she does, she would, it means something to her. Oh, wow, he didn't think of that. If his books were her solace when her mother died, then having a book based on her would—oh, Kate.

"Castle?" she prompts. Damn, he tuned out.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "Can we repeat the question?"

"Melody," Kate says, in that tone she normally reserves for when he's missed a vital piece of evidence while slacking off or playing with the boys, "was telling me that her husband loves your books."

"Oh, well thank you," he says, half charming, half sheepish.

She laughs. "You're welcome. He's really enchanted by the Heat series in particular. He's eagerly waiting for _Frozen Heat_."

"Aren't we all," Kate says on a sigh. He laughs and jostles her lightly.

"You don't get to give input?" Melody asks, swaying with more purpose as her son relaxes against her chest, mouth opening in a wide yawn. Oh, he's such a goner. A kid like that, with Kate's eyes and his hair? He's doomed.

"Sometimes," Kate tells her, nudging him with her shoulder. "Mostly just clarification on what's actually possible. He's not so interested in my other input."

"Hey!" he exclaims, bringing his free hand up to his chest. "When have I not taken a suggestion?"

"Her name is Nikki Heat," Kate offers drolly.

"Not a fan?" Melody asks, smirking.

"I told him I thought it was a stripper name, and now it's iconic," Kate replies, heaving a dramatic sigh he doesn't think he's ever heard before. He's not so sure he likes melodramatic Kate. He's not coming off too well right now.

"But people love her, and it's a great name," he protests. "You like it. Admit it."

"Nicole, I like," she agrees. "Nikki? It's cutesy, and a little—" she breaks off and glances at the toddler. "Uh, promiscuous."

"I'll second that," Melody says, giving him an apologetic look. "My husband's been at me to think about Nicole if we ever have a little girl. I've made him promise that we're calling her Nic, not Nikki."

"But Nikki would be cute on a little girl," Kate argues, staunchly refusing to look at him as he squeaks. "It's just the combination of Nikki and Heat—by the way, if you ever name a book _In Heat_, I will have to kill you," she adds, turning to glare at him.

He nods quickly. Even Paula vetoed that one—too crude. "Noted."

Melody laughs. "What are you guys doing all the way up here, if you don't mind my asking."

"Felt like having an adventure," he answers at the same time Kate says, "We needed a break."

Melody nods at them. "Understandable. Quite a fuss in the papers, right? Andrew was talking about it maybe a week ago?"

Kate nods slowly. "We closed a big case and thought—it was just time to take a break, together."

"Finally making up for the summers," he tacks on.

"Summers?" Melody wonders while Kate squeezes his hand, leaning into him, her head pressed back to the crook of his shoulder.

"Never got to take her on a vacation while I've worked with her," he explains, leaving out the whole opening her mother's case, other people, gun shot debacle. Sometimes he thinks he can lump them all into one grand summer—a summer now far behind them.

"So we're making up for lost time," Kate adds, her voice softer than before, her hand cupped around his waist now, strong and warm.

The little boy snuffles and opens his eyes, immediately squirming again just as the train whistle blows out over the valley.

"Looks like it's time to get back on the train, Riley," Melody tells her son, smiling as he claps.

"Train!" he exclaims, grinning at them. "Train!"

"I like trains too, buddy," Castle tells him, laughing as Kate nods emphatically.

"Were you so excited you couldn't sleep last night too?" she asks the little boy as the three adults make their way back up the path toward the meadow.

"Very excited," Melody tells her. "Then again, might have been the ice cream. Andrew's terrible about it, especially for a doctor."

"Yeah, they talk the talk, but don't walk the walk," Kate agrees.

He feels her fingers twitch against his side, as if she just realized that she referenced a past boyfriend with him right there. A few months ago, that would have been a blow, but now? Now, when she's wound around him, even though they could easily walk on their own—now, when she drops children into conversation with ease, when the word 'honeymoon,' doesn't make her pale—he doesn't mind.

She's his. He wins. He gets the girl, and Dr. Motorcycle Boy can go save some kids in Africa, or Haiti, or hell, he can save the whole world, so long as Castle's the one that gets to make Kate breakfast and fall into bed with her at 3am after a long night at the precinct.

"I kind of can't wait to watch him teach him to surf though," Melody tells Kate as they approach the train. He's tuned out again, but neither woman seems to care. "The smile on his face every time he says a new word? Ugh," she grins goofily and Kate laughs. "It's the best. Bet he's got a great one," she adds, lower, nodding toward Castle.

But he's listening now, and Kate's soft, "I can't wait to see it," socks him in the gut.

Melody boards before them and he doesn't bother to stop himself as he swings around and tugs his girlfriend in, sealing his mouth over hers even as smoke billows from the train beside them. She melts against him as he runs his tongue over her bottom lip, groaning when she opens her mouth and lets him consume her, his hands wrapped completely around her slim waist.

"I love you," he whispers as they break apart.

She smiles softly and sways with him, her arm around his neck, left hand at his cheek, stroking across the light stubble he didn't manage to shave this morning. She takes a breath just as the conductor shouts for them to get on board.

She laughs and pulls away, smiling as he pouts at her. She takes his hands and he follows her up and into the train, trailing behind her through the cars, smiling guiltily at the other passengers. They just held up a train, too busy making out to care. She may think their lives aren't really a story, but come on; normal people just don't get to do this stuff.

She ushers him into their seats when they reach their car, falling down beside him with an exhausted and exhilarated sigh. He reaches down and fumbles in their bag for a bottle of water, passing it to her before settling back, his arm over her shoulders.

"Have some," she says, passing the bottle to him once she's had her fill.

He doesn't remember noticing stuff like this in other relationships—when they share a toothbrush, a bottle of water, soap or shampoo. The little things become neither his nor hers, a collective theirs instead that's oddly comforting in place of cloying.

He lets out a satisfied, "Ahh," that makes her laugh as he caps the bottle, tossing it back into the bag as she snuggles into his shoulder. The train picks up speed and soon they're racing out of the canyon, seeing the opposite scenery; more trees than water, but they're resplendent in fall colors, with the sunlight dancing down through their leaves.

"You fence, right?" she asks after a quiet thirty minutes of watching the scenery and enjoying the way her fingers prance along his thigh.

"Yeah," he affirms, thrown, but interested to see what she's getting at. Her random questions are sometimes the best ones.

"Any other sports?"

"I think fencing's pretty good," he hedges.

She laughs and pats his thigh while he racks his brain for any other physical prowess. His hand-eye-ball coordination is exceedingly poor, and he was never great with soccer either. Somehow, ice skating and a certain amount of ballroom lessons don't seem like the right answers either.

"Why?" he wonders as her head falls to rest against his shoulder.

"Just thinking that fencing's kind of dangerous and unwieldy," she offers.

"Only if you don't know how," he protests. "Alexis started when she was ten, and she was a natural."

Kate nods against him as she swirls out random patters along his jeans. "Did she play other sports as a kid?"

"Mother got her dance lessons for a while, and she used to love to go skating during winter, but no, not really. We're not, uh, that coordinated, us Castles," he explains.

She laughs lightly against him and pats his stomach. "Oh, I know."

"Hey," he protests, trapping her hand. "I resent that. I've been coordinated in the past."

"Sorry, yes, you have," she concedes, still laughing. But her hand smoothes over his shirt, and her lips press against his shoulder in apology.

"Why the interest in Alexis' sports activities?" he asks a few minutes later, when he's drawn a blank down every possible option.

"Just curious," she shrugs. "Wondering whether or not I should be telling Esposito that he gets to coach the little league team."

"What? No way. That's not cool. I can coach a—yeah, that's probably for the best," he admits, grinning as she turns her cheek to press her mouth to his shirt to muffle her loud laughter. He'd be great for motivation, but the last time he threw a ball, he broke his mother's vase and Alexis sent him to his room.

"I'm sure you'll have the biggest foam finger at the games," she tells him.

"I feel like that could be dirty," he says immediately, laughing as she whacks his chest lazily.

"This is our hypothetical child's little league game we're talking about. Don't make this gross, Castle."

He turns and presses his lips to her forehead, finding her free hand with his as his heart takes off in his chest. "Sorry. No, I'll even bring a flag."

"That's going overboard."

"I'm just being supportive."

"Love him, don't ostracize him. You're already famous. Adding 'Mr. Castle, the flag guy,' is just going to make it harder on him," she explains, patience, exasperation and love woven into her voice as she pats his chest beneath his hand.

He lets out a breath and nods against her temple, resting his head on hers as they speed along the countryside. It bubbles up in him, the fact that they're not just talking about kids, but talking about parenting. This kid, their hypothetical son—he's starting to look real. They're starting to look real.

"Him?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Oh how I wish.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16:<strong>

He looks over when she starts twitching, her fingers pressing at his thigh where he's propped up in bed. He saves his work and gives her his attention as she grumbles something unintelligible, face twisting into a smile that steals his breath away, even as she sleeps.

A moment later, her eyes slam open and she heaves in a breath. He softly closes the laptop and slides it onto the side table, squinting for a moment until his eyes adjust to the dim light coming from the bathroom. When he can make out her face, she's already staring at him, eyes still too wide, still caught in her dream.

"Nightmare?" he asks gently, reaching out to smooth down a lock of hair that's tangled over her cheek.

She shakes her head and he watches as she curls her hands into the comforter, pulling the blanket up to her chest. "No, just," she trails off and blows out a breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Bad dream?" he wonders, shifting down so they're on the same level, so he can watch as her breathing regulates and her fingers loosen on the sheets.

"Wonderful dream," she whispers, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Really, really," she pauses and sucks in another breath as a tear slips down her face. "Wonderful."

She turns back to stare at the ceiling, her lip pulled between her teeth. He reaches out to touch her and then thinks better of it, keeps his hands to himself, waiting her out. After what seems an eternity, she turns onto her side, facing away from him.

He wonders if maybe she's fallen asleep, if maybe she was never really awake. Alexis used to have those dreams, waking dreams that she never remembered—screaming and crying and freaking him out, then waking with a smile the next day, totally fine. They did take a nine hour car trip today; it would be enough to disrupt her sleep cycle. He settles down, watching the shallow rise and fall of her back, hoping that she's okay, until he hears her voice, low and plaintive and hoarse.

"Castle."

He's behind her in an instant, wrapping himself around her body, frowning as she melts into him, shaking. He bends to press his lips to her cheek and tastes the salt of more tears. She's a ninja crier apparently, and he silently berates himself for not picking up on it, for being too tired and muddled to know what she needed.

"What's wrong?" he whispers, sliding his arm beneath her head as she winds her fingers between his on her stomach.

"Just the dream." Her voice is so tight and it leaves him baffled. A wonderful dream—her wonderful dream left her grief stricken?

"You're awake," he mumbles, reaching back for the tricks he used on his daughter, assuring her that what she saw was real, that he was there.

She hiccups and curls into him, turning to press her face to his bicep. "I wish I wasn't."

Don't draw conclusions. Don't draw conclusions. He forces himself to stay still, to fight the urge to recoil at her words as they strike through his chest. She loves him. She wants a family with him. She's with him at the The White Fox Inn in Thunder Bay, in Ontario. She agreed to spend three weeks entirely with him, in a car, in hotels. She doesn't mean him.

Her hand squeezes his, drawing him back to her, away from his semi-wounded ego. "What happened in you dream?" he asks, nudging her hair away from her neck so he can press his lips to her jaw.

She breathes for a moment, chewing on her lip, deciding, and he waits, convincing himself that whatever it is doesn't matter, can't hurt him, hurt them. Whatever it is can't truly be better than what they have now.

"You went to call Alexis," she begins, shifting slightly to bring their hands lower on her abdomen, pressing in. "And as you left, my Mom—" she sucks in a breath. "My mom came in, and she was so beautiful, and there, and smiling." His heart breaks a little. "And she came over and asked to hold him."

Hold him. Hold—their baby. Hold their—her mother came and…Oh.

"And I gave him to her. I didn't want to," she adds, louder, almost laughing suddenly. "I didn't want to give him up, to my Mom! Of all people." She breaks off and shakes her head against him, fingers strong between his, low on her belly, rubbing unconscious circles he's too distracted to recognize.

"Works like that," he whispers, his throat unbearably tight with the image of her mother holding their infant son. Their son.

She huffs a laugh against his skin. "But I gave him up and she just held him and beamed at me, and she told me he was beautiful." There's so much longing in her voice, wonder and grief and joy wrapped up into one, pulling at him, begging him for words he doesn't have.

"She said she loved me, and then—" She laughs, freer. "And then you came back in and," she stops and turns her cheek to kiss his arm. "And you wrapped your arm around her and kissed her cheek and she leaned into you and said—said she was proud of you."

His heart stutters, because he was wrong. More perfect—her dream, her mother, their son—is perfect. It's more than he can ever give her, more than either of them can have. "Oh, honey."

"He had your dimples," she adds, softer. "And you argued over whether he looked more like me or you, and it was just," she breaks off, slowly turning in his arms. "I want that," she whispers, meeting his eyes.

"I want that too." He curls his arm to cradle her head as she snuggles up against him, her nose pressed to his collar bone. "I wish I could give you that," he says, his lips at her temple.

Her soft laughter shocks him and he stiffens, confused. She pulls back and reaches up to stroke over his cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his. "Kind of need you for the baby part," she says.

Oh—but no, not that. "I wish I could give you all of it," he corrects.

She frowns and shakes her head, shifting to press her lips to his jaw. "The picture will be beautiful without my mom, too," she whispers, even as her voice cracks.

"I—" he sighs, catching her eyes, at a loss for words, struck by the promise in her voice.

She watches him for a moment, soft and sad and building back. "Sometimes it's hard, with dreams like that," she says gently. "But I—I'm really enjoying this."

"This?" he wonders, rubbing her back as she threads her leg between his.

"The trip," she explains, nudging his nose with hers. "Were you writing?"

"Oh," he mumbles, trying to keep up. "Yeah. I shouldn't have had that last coffee."

"I could have driven," she says, running her fingers down his arm, curling under the sleeve of his tee shirt.

"You were comfy," he argues, smiling when she relaxes against the hand rubbing circles on her back. "And I like driving."

"You like being in control," she says, teasing, her lips pressing quickly against his nose, nipping at him.

He grins and rolls them so he's settled on top of her as she laughs. "Sometimes," he admits. "Then again." He rolls them back so she's on top, watches as she rears up to hover over him, her thighs pressing against his hips, her hands splayed on either side of his head.

"You like it when I'm on top of you," she tells him slyly, smiling in a way that's far from innocent, but just shy of dirty. He grins and gives her an emphatic nod, dragging his hands down her sides to settle on her hips.

She shakes her head and bends to feather her lips over his, pressing down against his chest, the thin cotton of his shirt and her tank top not doing much to dull the sensation of her there, stretched over him.

But he's exhausted, and as he breaks away to trail his lips across her cheek and down to her jaw, he laves at the remains of tears, her slightly stuffed breath fanning across his cheek.

"Kate," he mumbles as her fingers trip down his chest. She hums and shifts on his lap. Man, he really is old if he can find it in himself to stop her. "Kate," he says, louder, pulling back to find her eyes.

She stares at him for a moment and then huffs, sliding off of him in a fluid movement. She settles in beside him, body still pressed to his, but fingers no longer roaming with lecherous purpose, just sitting platonically on his chest.

"In all the scenarios I'd worked up in my head over the years, you turning me away in the dead of night was never one of them," she offers.

"In all the—" he repeats, turning his head to look at her. "Now you're just being mean."

"I'm being mean? I'm being—who just turned down sex?"

He groans and she laughs, nudging the crook of his shoulder with her head as she hooks her knee across his thigh. "Believe me, it's against my baser judgment," he gets out, frowning as she laughs harder.

"Your baser judgment?" she says, giggling as she presses a kiss to his chest. "That's clever."

"Thanks," he mumbles. "And tomorrow morning, feel free to, you know, control me," he continues, waggling his eyebrows even though she's not looking. "Just thought we'd, uh, benefit from sleep?"

She nods slowly against him and he smiles, triumphant as she sighs. "Sometimes I wish you weren't such a good boyfriend."

"I'm," he stalls and looks down at her. "I'm not sure how to take that."

"You're a good man," she says, lifting up to meet his eyes. "Means I have to be good too, and being bad is…easier."

She's moving too fast for him to cotton on tonight, didn't realize she needed distraction. "If you need," he trails off as she glares at him.

"Pick a side."

He watches her for a moment and then nods, crooking his elbow to weave his hand into her hair, stroking over her scalp. She blinks once and lies back, relaxing against him. They're quiet for a long while as his fingers feather across her scalp and hers swirl along his chest. His thoughts skip like her fingers, switching from mothers to sons to Kate, beautiful and tragic.

"Did he have a name?" he wonders, surprised to find he's spoken the thought aloud.

She goes still for a moment and then her arm crosses his chest to clutch at his side, pulling herself as close as she can get. "Carnell," she murmurs.

He blinks. "Carnell? I've never…where did you come up with that?"

"It means, defender of the castle," she supplies, waiting a beat to give him the opportunity to weigh in. He's got nothing. "It was a dream."

"How did dream you come up with that?" he asks. He likes it, likes the significance, but can't quite imagine naming his son Carnell. It's too close to Cannell and carnal, a weird combination he's not sure he could put on a child.

Her face presses into the crook of his shoulder and he can't help but smile. "Is it embarrassing?" he whispers, surprised when she nods. "Seriously?"

"Remember the psychic's daughter?" she asks, her voice muffled in his shirt.

"Sure."

"Your middle name is Alexander."

"It is," he confirms, waiting for her to make it make sense. He can feel her wrinkling up her face, preparing to admit to whatever it is.

"She told me an Alexander would be very important to me, and would at some point save my life."

"Oh," he breathes out, feeling her words warm his entire body. "Okay."

"And you…have," she says. "And I liked the name, but Alexis—"

"And Alexander would be too disgustingly cutesy," he agrees, smiling as she nods. "So you…looked up names?"

"Alexander is the defender of men," she says. "And then there was Carnell, defender of the castle, and I guess it just stuck."

"Late night of drinking?" he wonders, trying to imagine a situation in which Kate Beckett would willingly have looked at baby names, for their child.

"Late night at my dad's cabin," she whispers.

"Oh," he breathes, unconsciously pulling her closer, scooting down so he can rest his lips at her temple, winded by the very notion of it. "It's not bad."

"We're not naming out son Carnell," she says immediately, her breath warm at his jaw.

"Middle name?"

She's quiet for a moment before she shifts back to meet his eyes. "Really?"

"It's got good consonance," he hedges, unsure of whether the brightness of her eyes is a good thing or a bad thing—unsure of whether it's good or bad that they've gone from, "do you want kids?" to, "let's name our fictional son."

"I—sure, a middle name, yeah," she gets out.

"Okay," he says.

"Good."

"Yeah."

They stare at each other for a long pause, their legs still twined together, fingers and hands still touching skin and shirts and thighs. The last time he named a child, he did it alone with Meredith knocked out, and there was a child present. He's never—beyond always and maybes and somedays—it's never been so clear.

"Did I take my pill today?" she wonders aloud and he nearly chokes on his own tongue.

"You—what, you—" he coughs out as she watches him with wide eyes and pressed lips, trying not to laugh. "If that was a joke, so not funny."

"No," she says quickly. "Not a joke. Kinda funny, but not a joke."

"Did you take it?" he asks, willing to put aside the fact that she finds his panic funny in lieu of finding out if there's actually something to panic over.

"I did," she assures him, nodding to herself as she smoothes her hand over his neck. "At dinner, like normal."

"Have you been," he pauses, priding himself on having the forethought to weigh his words, even if half of them are out already. Yeah, not something he should ask.

"It was something to hold onto everyday," she says, because she knows where he was going, with or without him actually saying it. Witchy woman. "And you've been pretty good with feeding me at normal hours."

He smiles, takes some pride in that too. "So we're good?"

"Yeah," she promises, shifting forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. "We're good."

Visions of them in a year swirl through his head, her stomach swollen, hands in his hair while she reads his latest manuscript and he whispers secrets to their unborn child, Jameson Carnell Castle; she'll never go for that, but he can enjoy it while it lasts. A few months ago, even this, now, seemed unreachable. He didn't know he wanted to get married again, couldn't fathom fatherhood again until this woman. But now that vision, with rings on their fingers and their child in her womb—it lights him on fire, courses need through his system, presses against his chest.

"Would you be pissed if I got Nikki pregnant?" he asks. Really, they have to stop having these conversations when he can't filter what pops out of his mouth.

"Only if you get her pregnant before me," she decides and he groans, pressing his head back into his pillow.

(…)

"You didn't need to rent out the boat," she offers as he returns to her side, passing her a flute of champagne as he presses up against her side, staring out at the vast expanse of Lake Superior.

"There wasn't anyone else signed up when I called. Not renting it out so much as reserving," he argues, taking a sip. "Good champagne."

"I've never known you to buy cheep booze," she replies, giving him a satisfied hum as she swallows her own sip. "It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," he says.

She nudges him and hides a smile behind her glass. "You ever been sailing before?"

He shakes is head. "Yachts don't really count, but there might have been an incident in Atlantic City last year."

"Would that explain the cut on Esposito's ass?"

"How do you know about that?" he gasps as she smirks at him, the wind whipping her hair back from her face.

"Don't tell me Espo didn't tell you he and Lanie have been hooking up since they broke up."

"You mean—when he was freaking out, he was still getting some?" Oh, he's going to kill that man, especially if this means Lanie's been keeping Kate up to date. Wait, they talk, "You talk about our asses?" Kate blushes and ducks her head as he groans. "Beck-ett."

"More about Espo than you. Haven't really had time with Lanie, what with you whisking me away and all."

"You better not tell Lanie about me," he threatens, though he knows it doesn't hold water. "What if she tells Alexis? I know the three of you are some sort of little information train, which extends to my mother, by the way."

She laughs and pats his arm. "Lanie won't talk about our sex life with Alexis. Though, I think she was in on the pool, come to think of it."

"A dead body enthusiast and a gambler? That woman's a bad influence on my kid," he huffs, knocking back the rest of his glass. "They let her in on the pool?"

"Lanie is a great influence on Alexis," Kate argues, elbowing him. "You know that."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "Wait, back up. You said Alexis is still working with Lanie?" he asks, remembering, belatedly, that his daughter's still walking with the dead. Kate's really too distracting for her own good. He needs to call his kid.

"Lanie mentioned doing a shift with Alexis," she explains, taking his glass from him to place it on the bench below them. "But Alexis hasn't mentioned it to me."

"Why wouldn't she tell me?" he wonders, rubbing a hand over his face. Kate's fingers work their way into his other hand and he sighs as she squeezes.

"Maybe because you're reacting like this?" she suggests, giving him a soft smile. "Do you really have a problem with it?"

"No," he groans, bending forward, pushing his face into the wind. "No, I just—she doesn't have to work, you know?"

"Well, it's not like she's getting paid," Kate adds.

"No, but she could just be a kid. I love that she wants—that it gives her a sense of purpose. That's great, I just—when you see your little girl in a tutu, yelling that she's a princess, you don't expect her to grow up to cut people up."

Kate laughs and leans into him, her shoulder pressed flush with his as she meets his eyes, their torsos dangling out over the water as the sun sets along the edge of the lake. "Lanie wanted to be a ballerina."

"I know," he huffs. "What do her parents think of her job?"

"What does your mother think of your following me?" she asks softly, her hand warm and small and soft in his.

"Touché," he grumbles as he looks back out at the lake. "Doesn't make it easier on me."

"No," she agrees. "But she loves it."

"Yeah, she does." He turns to find her eyes. "I'm proud of her for it."

"Me too," she offers quietly. "Lanie says she's got a natural talent for it."

"Oh, wow, the things a therapist could say about that," he says, laughing. "Bet she gets it from Meredith."

"Clearly," Kate snorts. "Couldn't possibly be you."

"I know, right? Never exposed that kid to anything untoward in my life."

She laughs and squeezes his hand. "It's a good job."

"I know," he concedes. "And I'd be proud of have my daughter be part of the NYPD." He covers her hands with his and meets her eyes. "Just like I'm sure your mom is proud of you. Just like I'm proud of you."

Kate lets out a breath and nods, glancing at their hands. "You better not be working up to proposing to me."

He drops her hand, startled, and laughs, watching as she giggles along with him, until he's wrapped around her, hands on either side of her body, her face pressing into his neck as he traps her against the railing.

"Told you I didn't have a ring," he mumbles, wrapping one arm around her shoulders to hold her against his chest. "Though, this would have been a good one."

"A good proposal?"

"Come on," he says, leaning back to get a look at her, sparkling eyes and wind-swept cheeks. "Champagne, boat, sunset. Pretty good, right?"

She smiles and pats his chest. "Eh."

"Eh?" he gasps, affronted as she smirks. "You said once you wanted intimate and romantic."

"And an entire boat is intimate?"

"It's just us!" he protests, sweeping his arm out to gesture to the empty deck behind him. "And the water, and the sun. Come on, that's pretty good."

She shrugs and slides up his chest to press her lips to his, snaking her arm up and around his neck, hanging on. "Doesn't matter. You don't have a ring."

"I can propose without a ring," he argues, releasing the rail to wrap her in his arms, guiding her back to trail his lips down her neck. "What if I want to let you pick out the ring?"

"Making me do the work?" she gets out around a moan. Damn, he loves that sound.

"Making sure you like the rock that's gonna be on your finger for the rest of your life," he defends against her skin, switching to the other side as she grips at his hair.

"Seriously, you better not be proposing to me right now," she hums.

"Would you say no?"

"No backhanded proposals either," she exclaims, pushing back so she can see his face.

"You have a lot of rules," he teases. "Get me a ring. Not on a boat. Not right now. Can't get a hint."

She flicks his ear and bites at her lip, stopping the smile he can see dancing in her eyes. "Castle."

"Love you," he says, winking as she huffs. "Don't worry. I won't be so predictable."

"No conning me into trying rings on, either," she says as he renews his attack on her neck. "Or…or…"

"Can I seduce you on the boat I rented, or do we need to make a list of all the things I'm not allowed to do?" he asks, pulling back to frown at her.

It would be the perfect place to propose, but he's so content already. He has all the promises he needs, and children's names, and mutual pride in his daughter, and her always.

"You're ridiculous," she decides, running her fingers through his hair. "No proposal?"

"A man could get to thinking that you don't actually want to marry him," he grumbles.

Her eyes widen and her hand cradles his face, fingers soft against his skin. "I do," she says quickly, before her eyes narrow and she starts whapping him as he laughs. "I said no backhanded proposals!" she exclaims, going for his ear as he ducks away.

"You said it not me," he protests, catching her hands as she reaches out to hit him again.

"It's too early for promises like that," she says as she struggles against his hands, putting in a feeble effort, since they both know she could drop him like a stone if she wanted to.

"We're way past promises like that," he corrects, tugging her in until she's a breath away. "That okay?" he adds, a little unsure, since she did just try to whack the crap out of him.

She sighs nosily and meets his eyes, hers full with the promise of everything. She nods once, then seals her mouth to his. "You're gonna pay for that."


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Still have that paper to write. I _did_ do the outline. Ah, progress.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17:<strong>

"I see your drunken night in Atlantic city and raise you a topless dance at a cop bar I'm glad Esposito was too sick to attend."

He chokes on his gummy bear, forcing himself to cough and keep his eyes on the road as she laughs beside him. "You're shitting me," he manages, heaving in air.

"Lanie Parish is extremely persuasive when you're young and drunk."

He glances over as she grins and pops a few more candies into her mouth. He shakes his head and grabs a water bottle, uncapping it to wet his protesting throat. If she's going to keep pulling that kind of thing out, he'll have to stop eating, and maybe stop breathing all together.

"Seriously?" he asks, looking over at the woman beside him, bare feet on the dashboard, hair tumbling free over her shoulders, hands playing with the fraying edges of her jean capris. She doesn't look much like Detective Beckett, but even so, he still can't quite see wild drunk twenty-something in there.

She shrugs. "I needed a little release, and they enjoyed it."

"No regrets?"

"Kind of wish Velasquez hadn't been there too, but we were all young and stupid."

Velasquez? He needs a drink. "How young?"

"Twenty-three. I was still in the academy," she offers. "I'll tell you, Royce was not ready for the me he met. Pretty sure his buddies were telling him I was a wildcat."

"Weren't you though?" he wonders, reaching out to toy with a lock of her hair, unable to stop himself as the sunlight hits her, glancing off golden-tinged curls.

"Shut up," she mumbles, laughing as she relaxes. "You're one to talk."

"I was an idiot," he protests. "You're…you."

"I'm not allowed to have fun?"

"I didn't realize that was the kind of fun you had at that age," he counters, shooting her a grin. "Glad we match though."

"Oh, one night does not a naked police horse ride make," she argues, snagging his hand, curling her fingers between his. "You still win."

"I don't know. You sure it was a one time thing? Didn't get the itch to, I don't know, try your hand undercover, make a little side money?" he teases, smirking as she gasps at him.

"Are you suggesting I became a stripper while I was running around with Royce?"

"You did tell me maybe there was a little more Nikki Heat in you than I previously thought," he hedges, laughing as she whacks at the back of his hand.

"Nikki has casual sex with her training partner; she's not a stripper," she tells him, huffy and annoyed and hot, so hot. "One night. It was one night."

"If you say so. Kind of sexy though," he adds, because he's a sick, sick man who likes to play with fire, obviously.

"You think the idea of me stripping in front of a bunch of other men is sexy?" she asks, eyebrows up, sunglasses off, teasing glare out in full force against him.

No, no. Damn, she wins. "No, just for me," he growls, bringing their hands down to trail along her thigh, the back of her palm skating up her stomach where her legs are bent up to her chest. "Mine."

"Mine?" she parrots, dragging their hands up so her lips are at his finger tips. "Feeling possessive, are we?"

"Yes." There's no use denying it. She's his, and only his, and always his, and nobody else gets to see her. She can call him a cave man, he doesn't care. She can lock him up and throw away the key if she wants—can forbid him to ever sign a chest again.

"Really?" she hums, snaking her tongue out along his pointer finger, lips nipping at his first joint. "You want me all to yourself?"

"Yes," he grinds out.

"Think you can handle it?" she simpers, switching fingers, lips and teeth and tongue torturing him so simply, so effortlessly. "Just how much can you handle?" she whispers, releasing him with a smack as she reaches out, fingers dancing along his thigh.

He opens his mouth just as his cell rings, groaning as her fingers tense on his thigh and then release, reaching instead for the console.

"Don't get it," he begs, catching her resulting smirk—so proud of herself. Damn, this woman will be the absolute end of him.

"It's Alexis," she protests with a small grimace. "Even grown up they have terrible timing, huh?"

"Welcome to parenthood," he manages. "Answer it."

She nods and swipes her finger along the screen, bringing the phone up to her ear. "Hey, Alexis," she says calmly. He'll get her back for that, someday, maybe. "Oh, no, he's driving," she adds, smiling over at him. "No, I'm totally the one who breaks that law. Do they have cell phone regulations in Canada?"

He listens as she exchanges idle chat with his daughter, delights in her quiet laughter. She might be evil, but she's beautiful, and talking with his kid, relaxed and free as they speed along the highway, rounding another long curve.

"Sure," she says, holding the phone out as she presses for the speaker.

"Hey, can you hear me?" Alexis asks.

"Hi, Pumpkin," he replies, smiling as Kate turns up the volume and then fits the phone back into the console holder.

"Hey, dad," his daughter says happily. "Kate says you're headed for Winnipeg?"

"That's in Canada," he says instantly. Kate glances over, bemused as Alexis laughs.

"Oh, the wonders of internet-taught geography," she says. "It's a viral musical, Kate."

"Ah," his girlfriend says, looking over, the message of 'of course you would,' telegraphing loud and clear.

"So what's up?" he asks, shrugging at Kate. Of course he would; it's the Harry Potter musical. She can't expect him to have missed that. He wonders if he ever downloaded it to his iPad. She'd love it. She better.

"Just calling to say hi," Alexis offers. "Haven't talked to you in a few days."

"Well hi," he replies automatically, and he notices Kate shifting, her fingers reaching out to take his. "I've missed you too, kiddo. How are things?"

"They're good," she chirps. Oh, he misses his kid. "Graham," she pauses, as if forcing herself to go through it. Growing pains. "Graham took me to a ska concert last night at a club where his friend DJs."

"A ska concert?" he repeats, trying to imagine his daughter in a noisy club, skanking. Is it called skanking?

"Anyone famous?" Kate wonders, smiling. Maybe she'll know, and she won't judge him too much for it. Then again, he's racking up age points—first sexiling, now skanking. Damn.

"Llama Tsunami?" Alexis offers. Kate shrugs and hums for her benefit. "They're up and coming. Really good though; I think most of them are seniors now."

"Columbia kids?" Castle puts in, laughing softly as Kate shakes her head.

"No, upstate, I think? Music school kids, but not Juilliard, you know?"

"Yeah, somehow, I don't see most of the kids at Juilliard playing ska," Kate says, grinning as Alexis laughs.

"Actually, one of the trombone majors got up and played half a set with them. But yeah, most kids in that program are…serious," his daughter agrees. "But nice."

"You did say Graham was doing a dual program, right?" Kate asks, surprising him. He really needs to pay more attention to this. What if she's dating an artist?

"Classical pianist," Alexis replies, and he cringes at the dreamy quality in her voice; it's more than the infatuation she had with Ashley. This might actually be—no way. She's too young.

"Pianists are some of the best," Kate agrees. "Big hands?"

"Hey!" he exclaims, glaring at her. "No way."

"Dad," Alexis sighs as Kate throws her head back and laughs at him. "And yeah."

"Ew, no, take her off speaker if you're going to do this," he grumbles, nudging at Kate with the hands they still have clasped together.

"Relax," Kate says, shaking her head as she strokes over the back of his hand with her free fingers. "Just means he's tall."

"Yeah, dad," Alexis chimes in, and he can hear the mischief in her voice. "What did you think it meant?"

"Remember which of us is paying for college," he says, going for haughty and failing as Kate pinches his hand and Alexis snorts.

"Right," she says. "Kate, do me a favor?"

"Sure," his girlfriend pipes up.

"Roll your eyes at him? You're so good at it."

"Ending this phone call," he threatens, moving their hands toward the phone, leaving more than enough time for the twin, "No!" he receives.

"You're such a baby," Kate huffs, laughing with his daughter. "But we'll behave."

"I highly doubt that," he says, but his daughter's continuing laughter is hard to fight and he finds himself smiling. Even teaming up on him, he's so grateful for the relationship the two share.

"So what's on the docket for the weekend?" Kate asks, relaxing again, their hands resting between them.

"Studying," the girl sighs. "But Graham's making me breakfast on Sunday, and then we're gonna go study in the park if it's nice out."

"That sounds great," Kate says, jumping in and glaring at him as he opens his mouth, stipulations about breakfast and sleeping and rooms tipping on his tongue. "Is he a good cook?"

"Very," Alexis says happily. "Not as good as you or dad, but still good."

"Your dad does make good breakfasts," Kate agrees, squeezing his hand. "It's a good trait."

"Yeah," Alexis agrees. "He cooking for you on this trip?"

"I haven't had a kitchen," he offers. "But I would."

"I have no doubts," Kate puts in, smiling at him. "It's been great so far."

"You went on the canyon train, right? Was it amazing?"

"So gorgeous," Kate replies quickly. "Oh, Alexis, if you get the chance to come up this way, you definitely have to go do it."

"I agree," he adds. "Though, I don't know when you're planning on going cross country."

"Did I mention Graham's Canadian?" Alexis asks innocently.

He groans as Kate grins, murmuring, "I think we've gotta cool it," to his kid.

"Okay," Alexis manages between giggles. "Dad, you mentioned something about a boat in your last email," she continues. "Sailing?"

"We went out on Lake Superior," he confirms. "At sunset. Very romantic."

Kate shakes her head at him and Alexis goes silent for a minute on the other end. "How romantic?"

He feels Kate tense next to him at the tentative quality in his daughter's voice. "Very, but not overly romantic," he replies, hoping his daughter is still as good at subtext as she was when she left for college.

"Good, good," she says. "Sounds great."

"It was very nice," Kate agrees, relaxing even as he traces over her left ring finger. "Though, he did rent out the whole boat."

"Oh, come on," Alexis scoffs and Kate turns to him grinning, only to find that his daughter does indeed play both sides. "You knew what you were signing up for."

"Ha!" he crows as Kate wrinkles her nose in his daughter's direction.

"Be glad he hasn't gotten a chopper yet."

"Get me a helicopter and you're a dead man driving," Kate says instantly.

Alexis giggles as he tosses her a lopsided grin. "Then we'd crash. You wouldn't want that."

"Yeah, no crashing please," Alexis chimes in.

"Fine. I'll wait to murder your father until we're on solid ground."

"Oh, well, as long as you're safe," Alexis hums and they hear the sound of keys tapping.

"We keeping you from something, pumpkin?" he asks.

"Oh, no!" she exclaims. "No, I just got…distracted."

The boy. He bets it's the boy. He's going to kill the boy.

"No problem," Kate says evenly. "You can call us again. We're driving for what, another three hours?"

He nods. "Three and a half, even."

"Okay," Alexis says breathlessly. "I just—there's a thing on the quad. Dad, did you pack a nerf gun anywhere?"

He laughs as Kate shakes, a hand over her mouth, smothering her grin. "I think I hid it under your mattress, actually."

"What good is that to me?" she returns, and they hear the rustle of blankets and pillows until she gives a triumphant, "Ah-ha!"

"Remember, it's quality, not quantity," he tells her.

"Save 'em until there's only a few of you left," Kate adds. "Humans versus Zombies still?"

Still? "Yeah," Alexis mumbles. "I'm still alive."

"Awesome. Go win," Kate encourages, tapping her toes against the dashboard.

"Will do. Good talking to you, explain the game to dad?"

"Will do," Kate promises as he lets out a, "Why hasn't it been explained to me before?"

"Love you," Alexis shoots out, slightly breathless as they listen to her tromp down stairs. "Love you too, dad. Talk to you soon!"

The call clicks out and they sit in silence, the car rumbling around them. Her hand is slack in his and he glances over at her. Mouth open, eyes wide, feet still, she stares at him, shocked and breathless, light dancing in her eyes.

He nods and squeezes her hand, waiting to relax his wrist until her fingers curl beneath his. He pulls their hands up to his lips as he splits his time between her and the road.

"Cas—" she breathes out. He waits, but she stays there, caught and held by his daughter's parting words.

"Humans versus Zombies?" he prompts a minute later, when it becomes clear that if he doesn't bring her back, he might lose her for the rest of the ride.

"Oh," she startles. "Yeah, it's—I'm surprised you don't already know."

"Seems my kid talks to you more than me," he offers.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, no, I meant," she breaks off and huffs. "No, Alexis talks to you all the time."

"Kate," he chides. "I was kidding." Perhaps this is not the time to joke about allegiances, since his heart is still pounding, and he's not the one who just got the ultimate seal of approval, at least, not directly.

She sighs and closes her eyes for a second, bringing their hands back to her thigh as she curls up in her seat, body canted toward him. "It's a campus game. I'm surprised you don't know because it seems like something you'd follow, college kid or not."

He chuckles and bobs his head, conceding that one. Come to think of it, why doesn't he already know about this? "Fair," he mumbles to keep her going.

"Anyway, people sign up and then there's one zombie who starts, I think. The humans wear bandanas, and carry nerf guns. If you shoot a zombie, they die. If a zombie shoots you—"

"The zombies have weapons?"

"It's only fair," she replies, laughing softly. "If a zombie shoots you, you turn into a zombie. I guess this is the final battle."

"A free-for-all on the quad?"

"Kind of sounds awesome, doesn't it?" she asks, rocking her knees back and forth. "Did they do stuff like that when you were in college?"

He turns to look at her, narrowing his eyes at her tone. "Are you insinuating that I'm too old to have done stuff like that?"

"Me? Of course not," she says evenly, eyes sparkling back at him.

"We didn't," he admits. "But it's not because we weren't imaginative."

"Just old," she coughs, grinning at him.

"Did you do anything like this?" he fires back. "I've only got eight years on you."

"The life of a fourth grader, mind you," she teases. "But, uh, no. I went surfing once, but not—no."

He swallows and rubs his thumb along the back of her palm. She wouldn't have done anything like that, because she was too busy breaking and trying to put her father back together. Right. Smooth.

"Wanna buy big nerf guns and trash a hotel room?" he offers a few minutes later, when she's taken to staring out at the passing farm land, retreating back into that quiet place where she's Kate and Beckett and Katie all wrapped into one.

She shakes her head and rotates to look at him, both hands tracing patterns over his. "I could go for a jacuzzi," she says softly.

"Infinitely better."

(…)

"This is ridiculous," she sighs as he runs his fingers down her stomach, lips at her throat with the jets at his back. "This is beyond lavish, Castle."

"So?" He reaches down to curl his hand below her thigh, pulling her leg up so the jet along the side of their tub pummels into her muscle. She groans and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. "Totally worth it."

"But we don't need the," she gestures at the rain shower they passed through to get to the tub inside the enormous glass stall, padding across the heated beige stone-tiled floor.

He stares around the rest of the cavernous bathroom, at the two vanity sink counters with the huge lighted mirrors that cast dancing light off the glass countertops. The bright wooden cabinets mesh nicely with the swirled green tiled walls and he smiles against the crown of her head.

It's a little lavish—okay, a lot lavish. The Riverstone Suite has a living room, and a master bedroom, and a kitchenette, two plasma TVs, and this bathroom. Maybe it's a little much, but she's groaning against him, eyes slipping shut as she turns to press her face into his neck.

"We don't need it, but I've only got a few weeks to spoil us rotten," he tells her temple.

"Certainly spoiled," she sighs into his throat. "It's not necessary."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Not the point," she retorts, but there's no bite to it—just the gentle timbre of relaxation lacing every syllable.

"Exactly the point. I love you," he adds, rubbing his knuckles against her ribs.

"I—" she breaks off to suck in a breath. "I don't need this to know that."

"Do I need to downgrade us?" he asks.

He loves the suite. It's awesome. And the Inn at the Forks is right along the river. If they're hungry, the room service will be fantastic, but it would be great in a smaller room too. He just wants to do this for her, for them—to let them bask in the lap of luxury. Soon enough, they'll be back with dead bodies, spending the night in his empty loft or her apartment, sleep a necessity instead of a pleasure.

"No," she says, rolling her neck. "No, I'll…deal."

He laughs softly and bends to feather his lips across her cheek. "Gonna be tough."

"Shut up," she mumbles, laughing with him. "Pretty spectacular," she admits, opening her eyes and raising her head to stare around. "The shower's stupid."

"Bet the glass is reinforced though," he says, all sorts of fantastic images playing through his head, of her, pressed up against the glass toward the mirrors.

"Hey, relaxing," she huffs, wiggling against him, doing nothing to help his head or anything else, for that matter. "Later."

"Holding you to that," he grumbles leaning his head around to kiss the base of her neck where it meets her spine.

She sighs and settles back against him when he straightens up, her fingers coming to thread through his, wrapping his arms back around her. She rubs her leg up and down his, smooth wet skin sliding across his calf. She turns her head and he meets her for a kiss, taking her bottom lips between his with his teeth before he soothes over it with his tongue, her breath hot on his cheek, hands clenching around his.

They break apart and he leans back again, bringing her with him to rest against his chest, wet and soft and warm against him. One of her hands deserts his to trail up and down his thigh, tracing patterns as she lets her head fall back onto his shoulder, looking up at him.

"I wonder if Alexis stayed alive," she says quietly, smiling as his lips meet her hairline. He can't help it. She's magnetic.

"I hope so. My daughter's totally capable of surviving a zombie apocalypse." Kate nods and stares up at the ceiling, her fingers slowly stilling on his thigh. "You okay?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," she whispers. "Yeah, just…thinking."

"About your college days?"

She shakes her head. "No, I mean, I guess. Just, when I was in college you were raising your daughter."

He hums against her skin, searching for the right words, trying to divine her direction out of the rise and fall of her stomach beneath his hands. "Yeah," he manages.

"Was it hard?" she asks, shifting slightly so she can look up and meet his eyes.

"Raising her?"

"Alone," she explains. "I just—you were young, you know? And Meredith left what, when she was three?"

"Four," he corrects gently, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathes in the scent and the feeling of this woman here with him—this woman who won't leave him, or cheat on him, or abandon her daughter. "It was, yeah, it wasn't easy," he admits.

"She's so wonderful," Kate continues. "And you did that, you know? I'm just—I'm proud of you?"

He chuckles. "Are you asking me?"

She smiles and turns her cheek to kiss his shoulder. "No, just, I am, but I don't really have any right to be. I didn't know you then."

"Whether or not you have the right, I'll take it," he tells her, bending awkwardly to feather his lips over hers. "Thank you," he adds, his throat a little tight at the look she's giving him.

"Thank you," she repeats, smiling.

"For what?"

"For sharing her with me," she says, shy and wonderful and bright.

"Oh," he breathes, overcome. "Oh, no, Kate, don't," he stumbles. "Don't thank me for that."

She shakes her head and brings her hand up to run her knuckles down his cheek. "You trust me not to hurt her, and it just—it means a lot to me. And I want to—she said today that," she pauses and purses her lips, fingers trailing across his collarbone. "I didn't think—I wasn't expecting to get a family," she whispers, her eyes shining. "I thought maybe I could have you and just be part of her life, but I didn't expect to—"

He cuts her off, melding their mouths together, too full, too wrapped up in her and her words to make any come out of his mouth. She shifts around him so she can cradle his head in her hands as his pull her against him, chest to chest.

"Stuck with us now," he manages as he breaks away to skate his lips over her cheeks, her jaw, "Part of the Castle, queen of the Castle."

She breaks away, laughing, their noses brushing as she finds his eyes with hers. "Queen of the Castle?"

"Sorry, Alexis is already the princess, so you'll have to settle with queen."


	18. Chapter 18

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I finished the paper!**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18:<strong>

He rolls over and blinks at the clock, strong sunlight shining through the huge windows, fanning out over the bottom of the bed. It's two in the afternoon, and he groans, sluggish and warm, his feet toasty under the huge gold comforter. He twists slowly, expecting to find her side of the bed bare; maybe she's in the living room reading, or down in the workout room.

But instead, he finds her still asleep, face mashed into her pillow, hair sprawled over the cream-colored sheets. One of her hands is curled around the corner of his pillow, and he wonders if maybe it was on his chest before he rolled away. He's so tempted, so very tempted to simply sidle up to her, share her pillow, bury his face into her shoulder, and fall blissfully back to sleep wrapped around her. But it's two already, and if they don't get up soon, they won't sleep tonight. Neither of them is all that accustomed to getting what must be close to thirteen hours of sleep now.

He gives himself the moment, slides across the soft sheets and covers her with his body, letting half of his weight settle down against her bare back, legs on either side of her thighs. He bends to press his lips to her shoulders, her neck, the curve of her skull. Slowly, he threads his fingers through hers where her arms are tossed out across the bed and brings them back, stretching out so he can settle down, lips at her ear.

"Morning," he murmurs, smiling as she shifts, turning her face toward him. "Time to rise and shine, sleepy."

"Hmm," she lets out, blinking her eyes open slowly as her fingers squeeze between his. "Morning."

Her voice is low and throaty and sexy as hell as she stirs beneath his body, all soft and smooth. "It's actually afternoon," he corrects them both, feathering his lips along her temple. "How do you feel?"

"Relaxed," she sighs, arching her back to push him off enough for her to turn over, her hands twisting and curling in his until their palms kiss as she blinks up at him. "You?"

"Comfy," he says, grinning as she smiles.

"What time s'it?" she asks, yawning, her mouth rounding out in this adorable circle as her forehead wrinkles.

"Two," he tells her, and he's sure he sounds horribly besotted.

"Two?" she repeats, eyes snapping open. "Really?"

"I guess we were tired," he shrugs, grinning as she arches up to nip at his jaw.

"Wore you out, huh?" she teases as she falls back, shifting beneath him, dragging a toe up the back of his leg.

"More like wore you out," he counters, dipping his head to trail an open kiss across the pale expanse of her throat, touching his tongue to her thrumming pulse.

"Too worn out," she mumbles breathily.

He laughs against her neck and rears back to meet her eyes. "Sorry."

She yanks a hand away from his to bring it to his chest, colliding with his skin with a small smack. "Don't apologize for that."

He grins, can't help it, and watches as she blushes, hips wiggling beneath his. "If you can't, stop moving," he grumbles, taking his hand back to rise off of her and roll to her side.

She sighs and turns to face him, reaching out to stroke over his cheek, eyes tender. "Maybe tonight," she offers. "Just, ah, kind of fond of walking."

He turns and kisses her fingers, smiling back, a little worked up, but a lot in love. "I do like to watch you walk," he says, laughing as she purses her lips.

She opens her mouth a few times before shutting it to shake her head, sagging into the pillows, her hand falling to rest against him, the back of her palm warm on his side. She shifts closer, sliding her head to his pillow, body crowding his.

"Don't go back to sleep," he says, chuckling as she cracks her eye open to look up at him. "I know it's comfy, but then we won't sleep tonight."

"What if I don't plan on sleeping?" she tosses back, laughing as he narrows his eyes.

"Tease," he says, brushing the hair from her forehead. "But come on. We should go out. It's sunny. We could stroll along the river?"

"Sure," she breathes out, still sleepy and snuggly and back to adorable. "Can we take this bed home?"

"I thought you liked my bed," he says, ignoring the flutter of his heart at the deep, contented sound of _home_.

She wrinkles her nose and shifts her head once in something of a nod. "Yeah."

"Want it for your place?" he asks, images of trucks and orders and Amazon purchases tumbling through his mind.

"Maybe," she mumbles, eyes slipping shut again.

"Kate," he laughs, reaching out to jostle her shoulder. "Let's go for a walk."

"Never imagined you'd be the one annoying me out of bed," she grumbles as she resignedly sits up, the blankets slipping down her figure, leaving her bare from the waist up. "Later," she repeats, smirking as his eyes trail up to her face.

"Later," he agrees, leaning in to snag her lips, a promise, a greeting, a breath. "Wanna grab coffee and something to munch, or do you want room service?"

She hums as he leans back, settling beside her against the huge, fluffy pillows. "There's a market across the street," she offers.

"Or the mini donut factory."

She shoves on his shoulder with a laugh and he grins back. "No."

"Oh, come on. We're not in New York. You can just like donuts. I promise, no cop jokes."

"Somehow, I don't believe you," she says, narrowing her eyes even as she fights a smile. "Though, the boys would love it."

He chuckles. "Esposito especially."

Kate giggles and bends to kiss his shoulder, resting there for a moment before she pulls herself back up. "Ugh. We can't sleep this late again. I feel like I'm moving through water."

"You mean we need to sleep this late all the time so you get used to it," he counters, stretching out with a little groan. "There's nothing quite like a good knock-out sleep."

"I don't usually sleep that hard," she argues, swiping her phone from the side table. She sighs softly. "I missed a call from the guys."

"Call 'em back," he suggests, leaning back to slide his arm over her shoulder.

"No, hey, lemme up," she grumbles, scooting forward to reach down to the floor. She comes back with his tee shirt from the previous day. He makes a grab for it, not quite ready to give up naked Kate, but she shoots him a look. "I'm not calling the precinct when I'm topless."

"They can't see," he protests.

"But I know. And I—you shouldn't be ogling me while I'm talking to Ryan."

"Why? I do it all the time," he says, grinning as she gives a small laugh. "He's done it too."

"Oh, shut up," she whines, dropping the phone to the comforter to slip into the shirt. "That's—brothers. They're like my brothers."

"Yeah," he agrees. "But they're not actually your brothers, and I've gotta tell you, when you wear a dress, or when you bend over in those ass-hugging jeans, they're definitely not your brothers."

"Gross, Castle," she says with a glare, before staring down at her phone. "Here, you call them," she huffs, tossing her phone to him.

He swallows a grin and presses Esposito's picture, then turns up the volume. She's gonna regret this in three, two, "Hey, man, why're you callin' me on Beckett's phone?"

"She's punishing me," he offers, laughing as Kate gasps and lunges for him as he scurries out of the bed.

"Punishing you? Dude, I don't really wanna—hey, Ryan, it's the 'rents!"

"The 'rents?" he parrots, grinning at Kate as he prances down the hall with her hot on his heels. "Seriously?"

"What? Oh, yeah, well we've gotta call you something, and, uh, Gates was kind of clear on no precinct contact," he adds, voice a little softer. "But how're things?"

"No precinct contact?" he repeats, coming to halt only to have Kate crash into his chest. "Oof, hey," he grunts.

"Castle?"

"Sorry, uh, tripped," he offers, stifling a chuckle as she calmly hands him a pair of boxers. Oh, yeah, she's right. It's weird. "Here, talk to Beckett for a sec?"

"Sure, but—" he hears as he passes the phone to Kate to step into his boxers.

She rolls her eyes and presses the speaker button. "Hey, Espo," she greets, grabbing his hand to drag him onto the couch.

"Hey," Esposito says happily.

"Hi, guys!" Ryan adds.

He wonders if they're on two phones, one, or sharing Esposito's. "Hey, Ryan," he calls out, laughing at Kate's soft shake of her head. "How're things?"

"Pretty good," the detective replies. "Quieter without you guys here."

"Yeah," Espo agrees. "Where are you now? Lanie mentioned something about a road trip in Canada?"

"Did she now?" Castle wonders, laughing as Kate elbows his side.

"We're in Winnipeg," Kate tells them. "Staying in a ridiculously swanky hotel."

"That's right. You're on a Castle adventure. How is the lap of luxury, Beckett?" Esposito asks.

Castle runs his hand over her thigh as she stiffens. He leans in to kiss her cheek as she offers a, "Why, Espo? You wanna see Castle in his undies?"

All three men groan. "Yeah, and I'm the one with the problem," he groans into her ear.

"Not cool," Ryan offers.

"You're seein' Castle in his undies?" Esposito adds, and he can practically hear the man grinning.

"I keep asking him to put pants on, but he's something of an exhibitionist," she retorts, smirking.

"Says the woman wearing only my tee shirt," pops out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "Ouch!" he yelps as she gets his ear between her fingers. "Joking. Joking. She's wearing a parka and snow pants. No skin. Jeez, woman!"

The boys laugh on the other end and Kate glares at him for a moment before a smile breaks across her face. Yeah, she's happy, and as embarrassing as it is for the guys to rib them, it's affirming too. They're family. They should know—should get to be the little brothers they are.

"But you're having fun?" Ryan asks when they've all calmed down.

"Yeah, we are," Kate says, reaching up to rub his ear, smiling at him. "How's things there?"

"Good," Esposito offers.

"Just good?"

"Just good," Ryan adds in and Castle sighs as Kat sags back.

"How's married life, Ryan?" he asks, trying to get them onto another subject. So Gates has told the guys they're not to discuss anything with Kate. That's fine. Not fine with her, but it's probably for the best.

"Good," Ryan says quickly. "Really good. We went to a winery upstate over the weekend. Really nice."

"You guys got the weekend off then?" Kate asks as he wraps his arm around her, playing with the edge of his shirt on her shoulder. "That's good."

"Yeah," Esposito agrees. "It was nice. So Winnipeg?"

"We're about to go and walk along the river," Castle says. "And I got to drive yesterday."

"Exciting," Ryan tells him, laughing.

"You trust him behind the wheel, Beckett?" Esposito asks, suppressing his own chuckle.

"He's surprisingly capable," Kate offers, grinning as he huffs.

"I can drive," Castle argues.

"We know, man," Esposito placates. "Just callin' to say hi?"

"Yeah," Kate says softly. "Hadn't talked to you in a while."

"Well, it's good to hear from you," Ryan says, and Castle can tell he's smiling, Espo too.

"Saw little Castle yesterday," Espo adds.

"Oh?" Castle lets out, surprised. "She didn't mention anything."

"Dude," Ryan hisses.

"What?" Esposito replies. "Took her out for drinks. What?"

"Drinks," Castle repeats. "You better not be buyin' drinks for my kid."

"Virgin drinks. Cool your jets, Lanie bought," Esposito tells them. "We got dinner too. Very innocent."

"Scary smart, that girl," Ryan says. "She was telling me about that microbiology course she's taking. I could barely keep up."

"She's got Lanie wrapped around her finger," Esposito tacks on.

"Oh, come on, Espo. She's got you wrapped around Lanie's little finger," Kate cuts in, laughing. "I'm glad you guys went out though."

"Felt like all of us could use a little time. We're still on for poker when you get back, right?" Esposito asks and Castle realizes how much he misses their little family—how much he misses lunches in the break room, and body chats with Lanie. And his kid. Oh, he misses his kid.

"Of course," Kate answers for them, since it feels like his throat has closed up. His kid is at college. His kid is getting drinks with the boys, because she's her own little adult. "Listen, we should let you go," she adds. "But it was good to talk to you."

"You too," Ryan says. "Yeah, coming!" he adds, louder. "Gotta go, Gates is calling."

"Talk to you soon," Esposito adds. "Have fun."

Then the call cuts out. Kate leans forward to put her phone on the coffee table before she turns to him. He can't quite wipe it off his face yet. His daughter is at college.

"You okay?" she asks quietly. "You're not really upset that Lanie took Alexis out, are you?"

"What? No, of course not," he says quickly, pulling himself together. He's just being maudlin and overly sentimental. Alexis is doing just fine, off at school, meeting boys and cutting up bodies. "No, I'm—we should go," he decides, standing.

She stares up at him, bemused, so he shoves on a smile. He's fine. He'll be fine. It's not a big deal. So his daughter's at college—nothing big about it.

"Sure," Kate says slowly, standing up, her fingers at his elbow. "Come on. We'll go to the donut factory."

"Really?" he asks, perking up.

"Gotta get presents for the boys," she says with a smile. "So they don't think Mom and Dad have neglected them."

"Can you believe they call us that?" he huffs.

So they don't think Mom and Dad have neglected them. Mom and Dad. His daughter's at college.

(…)

In retrospect, putting his pictures of Alexis as a little girl onto the iPad was a massive mistake. He takes a deep breath and forces his eyes open only to be met with her smiling face, arm pointing off into the distance as he looks up at her settled on his shoulders, his hands clutching at her legs. Rosy cheeks and big orange pigtails—he sniffles pathetically and wipes at his nose.

He glances at Kate, but she's still sleeping, rolled away from him, her body rising and falling gently. Good. He'd get out of bed, but he's pretty sure that would wake her, and he doesn't want her to see this—this maudlin, pathetic, wreck he's made of himself.

She's just across the island. 15 minutes. Less from the precinct. And she comes over for dinner all the time. She's hardly gone at all really. She's just a phone call away.

But his apartment is empty. He hasn't had the time to notice really, but his mother's rarely there; she's been spending her time with Jack Davenport, and from what he's heard, they're pretty serious. He's been so wrapped up in the case and the woman beside him that he never took the time to sit down and think about it. He's an empty nester. He's a single parent now—well, not single. But he's—his daughter is—he's alone.

He sighs and reaches up to scrub at his treacherous eyes, weeping stupid tears for something that just isn't a big deal. But it is. It is. It's his kid, and she's gone and he doesn't know when it became this hard.

"Rick?"

Shit.

He looks down and finds her there, staring up at him, concern all over her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he gruffs out. "Nothing, I—I didn't mean to wake you."

She shakes her head and pulls herself up, scooting over to rest her cheek on his shoulder, looking down at the iPad. He stiffens momentarily and hears her sigh as he relaxes.

"She was cute," Kate offers after a minute of silence in which he tries so valiantly to stop the tears and the heartache, but just can't manage it.

"Yeah," he whispers.

"What's wrong?" she asks again, turning her body into his, tucking her foot around his knee.

"Just," he tries, stopping to shake his head. "Nothing's wrong. I'm—I'm being stupid."

Kate considers him as he closes his eyes. He can feel her gaze sweeping his face, feels her fingers at his wrist, gently guiding the iPad from his hand to his bedside table. Then her hands fuss with the blankets, swirl across his skin, try to relax him. But he's still tense, still can't quite pull himself together, and if she keeps doing that, he's going to break.

"Kate," he says, and his voice is entirely too tight, too pleading.

"You miss her," she whispers in understanding. He raises a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "We can go back," she adds.

His eyes snap open. "No. Oh, no, it's not that," he says quickly—doesn't want her to think for even a moment that it's somehow her fault. She's been his distraction. She is his distraction. He needs her, even if he doesn't want her to see him like this.

It's not rational. It's not like the nightmares, or the PTSD, or the shootings. It's not the hypersensitivity. It's just stupid. Stupid, because all he wants to do is cry when his daughter's at college down the street.

"Then?" she prompts softly, running her hand down his arm, entirely too sweet, too loving, too much.

"I—" he manages. "I—can't," he says as he takes a few deep breaths. A tear leaks down his face. God, can't she just not care? Just for five minutes. Just enough time for him to stop falling apart.

She nods in understanding and slides away from him. Good, maybe she'll just leave him alone, go to sleep, let him do it alone. Oh, but he doesn't want to. And will she really just give up? It chills him, the idea, the loss of her. He doesn't really want her to—

But she's there at his side already, extending her hands for him, wearing a tank top and a pair of his boxers, face soft and tired. He blinks up at her, confused.

"Come on," she says gently, bending to take his hands and tug him out of bed.

He follows, too tired and too strung out to resist the sound of her voice and the feel of her palms so small in his. She's not a small woman. She's tall, and strong, and majestic. But tonight, in his boxers, with her hands in his, she's small, and she's his, and she's taking care of him.

She guides him into the bathroom, turns on one of the vanities, bathing the room in soft, yellow light as she steers him over to the unlit mirror. She pulls a stool out from beneath the granite countertop and lowers him onto it. She squeezes his shoulders once as he sits there, stunned and straining for breath and the absence of tears. He watches as she searches in a cabinet, fishing out a wash cloth.

She runs it under the sink and wrings it out before padding back to him. She cradles his skull with one hand, stepping into the vee of his legs as she gently runs the washcloth beneath his eyes.

He stares up at her, mute, astounded, and hit a second time—a punch to the gut at the feeling of her there, wiping his cheeks free of tears and grief.

"My daughter's at college," he lets out, looking up at her.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Yeah, she is."

"I didn't—I don't know why, tonight," he offers lamely. He can't articulate it, can't explain why all of a sudden, he's stricken with the thought that his daughter's all grown up.

She shrugs and places the cloth onto the counter, returning to run her fingers through his hair. "Because there's time now."

He nods slowly and she smiles, stepping closer to pull him into her. He lets his forehead fall to rest against her stomach as he wraps his arms around her, breathing out as he closes his eyes.

"We can call her tomorrow," Kate says softly, her fingers carding through his hair, the backs of her nails gliding gently across his scalp.

"Yeah," he says, focusing on her, and the way she pulls him back together. "I'm being stupid," he adds.

"No," she says quickly. "No, it's not stupid."

"She's down the street," he argues. He needs her to agree with him, or else it's real, and it's there, and he's without his daughter.

"But she's not home." She brings his head back and looks down at him as he fights to make eye contact. "I was wondering when you'd get…here," she adds.

"A sobbing mess in the bathroom? Wow, testament to my manliness," he manages, trying to glare at her, but utterly failing.

She shakes her head and clicks her tongue, bringing one hand around to cup his cheek. "A testament to your fatherhood," she corrects. "When she left for a week you were almost insane," she tells him. "And this—I totally get this."

"I don't," he mumbles.

"We were so busy when she left that you didn't have time to really get it," she supplies. "And I'm sorry about that."

"No," he says quickly. "No, it was good. Well, it wasn't good," he stumbles, sighing as she gives him a soft smile for it. "But if it hadn't happened like this, I would have been alone in my apartment without her. And instead I had—I was—there was you."

She bends and presses her lips to his forehead, breathing against him for a moment before she straightens. "You've got me," she whispers, both hands on his cheeks, staring into his eyes.

He squeezes her hips, losing himself in her. "You'll play laser tag with me?"

She laughs and nods. "I'll kick your ass."

"Thank you," he says, and it comes out so much more serious than he intends. She's not his daughter, can't fill that void, but she can fill another. And she's willing, willing enough to dry his tears and not care when he cries and let him hug her like she's the only anchor in his world.

She shakes her head and runs her thumb beneath his eye. "We're partners. It's what we do."


	19. Chapter 19

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I don't think AWM has to worry about whether he can get college intervention to rent a car before he's 21…**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19:<strong>

"So where are we staying tonight again?" she asks as they round another curve surrounded by deep greens and browns on either side of the seemingly endless highway.

"Saskatoon," he says for the third time, grinning as she shakes her head. "What? It's a real place."

"The names are just—" she lifts a hand from the steering wheel, making circles with her palm, lost for words.

"Wait 'till we stop over in Kamloops," he adds, laughing as she shakes her head. "Come on, we've got weird ones in the States."

"Yeah, but," she breaks off and huffs out a laugh. "Maybe I'm getting loopy. It shouldn't be that funny."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"We've only been in the car for four hours," she sighs. Nevertheless, she takes the water bottle he extends without protest, and he watches as she drinks greedily.

"Yeah, but the sex, booze, and Chinese food probably doesn't help with the woozy-ness."

She glances over, sly and smug, and he can't help but groan. Devious things—she did absolutely devious things to him last night when they holed up in their suite, demolishing the mini-bar after finishing their bottle of wine. He doesn't think he's ever seen her quite that hammered, and never that kinky.

"Stop it," she commands.

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking about what we did last night."

He grins and reaches out to trail a finger down her bare shoulder; she hastily tossed her sweater off an hour ago. She's glowing and beautiful and they're both a little strung out. They probably should have stayed another night in Winnipeg, but he wants to hit Calgary at the two week mark—save that last week for Vancouver and Washington.

"Sorry, my dear, but those images are seared into my brain," he says, drawling enough to make her laugh through the glare she shoots him.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure they're seared into my back, too," she offers, unapologetic. She's not even whining.

"Told you we should have gotten off the floor," he says, smiling as she purses her lips. "But no, you just had to have me right then and there."

"I was plastered," she argues. "But, uh, yeah, little carried away."

He bobs his head and watches as she shifts against the seat. "You sure you're okay?"

"It's rug burn," she replies drolly. "I'll live."

"We can pick something up at the next gas station—moisturizer, maybe?"

She shakes her head and leans back, before shifting forward with a small sigh. "Yeah, not a bad idea, but maybe just Neosporin."

"We've got a Jacuzzi in Saskatoon. Will that help?"

She groans and looks over at him. "Might hurt, actually. But it's not that bad—just at the right spot to hit the seat every time."

"Cool shower, then," he decides, bending forward to rummage in the little bag by his feet that they've filled with water and snacks. "Ibuprofen?"

"God, yes. Mine just ran out. How's your head doing?" she asks as he passes her two pills and the water bottle.

"It's wondering when we got too old to party," he says, popping two more pills himself.

"I'm not too old," she taunts. "You just maimed me."

"I did not," he exclaims. "I said we should move, and you said no!"

"I was too busy trying to not—you had your hand—I was in no condition to make responsible choices."

He laughs, watching as she cracks a grin herself. They fall into a contented silence, low jazz thrumming over the speakers as he reclines in his seat. They spent all of yesterday exploring the city, finding good coffee and wandering the streets as bonafied tourists. She took every opportunity to make him laugh, to make him smile, to make him happy—happy and distracted.

"Why don't you give Alexis a ring?" she suggests softly, glancing over at him.

He shakes his head. "She's got class in an hour, and I don't want to disrupt her morning ritual," he tells her. He does kind of want to bother his kid, but he shouldn't. "I should probably check in on my mother though."

"I got a text a few days ago. She said she hoped we were having fun," Kate says easily. He just stares at her. "Did I not mention it?"

"No, you didn't."

"Sorry," she mumbles, looking back at the road, lip between her teeth.

He nods and looks back at his phone. Why didn't his mother text him? "I guess I should still call, right? We've been gone almost two weeks."

"Oh, crap," she groans. "Did I—jeez, when was the last time I called my dad?"

He shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. "We're bad children."

She hums in morose agreement. "I mean, they know we're safe."

"Yeah."

"And, I'm sure they assume we've been…busy."

He laughs, startled, and looks over to find her blushing. Oh, it's too good. "Are you saying my mother and your father haven't been calling because they don't want to interrupt us while we're having sex?"

"Shut up," she grumbles. "And yeah."

"It's two in the afternoon," he exclaims, almost scandalized.

She glances over, an eyebrow arched, and he can't help but grin a little. Okay, so the time of day doesn't really matter. "I just, I don't want to think my mother knows—ugh, no."

"Castle, you've been living with your mother for years. I'm sure she's aware that you're, uh, active."

"Active?" he repeats, chuckling.

"Shut up," she tosses back, gripping the steering wheel to keep from hitting him.

"I mean, we certainly have been active," he taunts. "Just last night, man, I can't remember the last time I—" Her hand shoots out to pinch his arm and he yelps, prying her fingers off. "Hey!"

"First, you better not be remembering that last time you did any of what we did last night," she says, her voice calm and controlled, but deadly—oh, so deadly. "Second, call your mother."

"Fine," he grumbles, rubbing at his arm. "And, for the record, I actually can't remember the last time."

"Keep it that way," she replies, reaching out to turn off the stereo. "Tell Martha I say hi."

He sighs but nods and finds his mother's number in his phone, scrunching down in his seat as he dials. He catches Kate smiling out of the corner of his eye and he reaches over and flicks her.

She glares at him as his mother picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi, mother," he says, grinning at Kate, who scowls and gives her attention back to the road. There are definitely benefits to riding shotgun.

"Oh, Richard," his mother says happily. "How are you, dear?"

"I'm good," he tells her, watching as Kate fights a smile. "We're on the road to Saskatoon and I've been meaning to call, so, here I am."

"Taking advantage of Kate's driving expertise, I assume?"

"Hey, I've driven," he defends, waving Kate off as she laughs into her hand. "At least half."

"I'm sure you have," Martha placates. Damn mothers. "But you're enjoying yourselves?"

"We are," he agrees. "It's been great."

"Alexis says the two of you sound very happy," she continues.

"Yeah, we are," he says softly, looking over at Kate as she uncaps her lip balm one-handed and applies it. "How have you been? How's Jack?"

"I've been very well," she says, and he hears her clattering around the kitchen. "I'm actually making dinner for Jack as we speak."

"Oh," he manages. Weird—that's weird, that she's making her boyfriend dinner in his loft. Right? It's weird. "That's…nice."

"Richard," she sighs. "Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all," he says quickly. Yes. Yes it does. But he's not about to say that to his own mother. If she knows he's active then she can cook din—yeah, he really doesn't want to think about it. "Go ahead. I got a few new bottles of wine before we left."

"Oh, I've found those, don't you worry," she says cheerily. "And Kate's well?"

"She's great," he replies, smiling, can't seem to help himself. The woman in questions smiles and reaches out to run her fingers through his hair. "Keeping me on my toes."

"The best ones do," his mother agrees. "And everything else? You two are dealing?"

"Yeah," he says, catching Kate's hand as it falls to rest on his thigh. "We are. It's been good for us, I think." Kate nods slowly and squeezes his hand.

"You're not tired of the hotel life?" Martha wonders as things clatter and clack in the background. He hopes Jack has a strong stomach. "I remember hating it when we did tours."

"Well, we are staying in some of the more comfortable ones," he admits as Kate shakes her head.

"Too comfortable," she calls out. "He got us this suite, and Martha, it was half the size of my apartment."

He brings the phone back to his ear, a little miffed as to why he held it out for her to talk in the first place. His mother is laughing. "Oh, Richard," she gets out. "Are you trying to spoil that poor woman?"

"I'm trying to pamper us both," he argues. "And it's working. I'm not nearly as sore, and I don't think Kate's complained about her ribs in a week."

"I never complained about them," she huffs. "But yes, they don't hurt anymore," she adds grudgingly.

"It's all good, mother," he says, laughing as she tuts at him.

"Don't drive her too crazy," she warns.

"I've been good," he defends. "Really."

"I'm kidding," Martha says softly. "I trust you."

"Thank you," he replies. It hits him a little too hard, that trust—trust that maybe they all doubted when the case opened up for the last time. Hard to trust that your son will come home when he's throwing himself into danger. Kate squeezes his hand and he glances over at her to find her smiling, her thumb rubbing circles against the back of his palm.

"You're welcome, kiddo. Now, I should go, before I burn the sauce."

"Try not to give him sodium poisoning," he says immediately, grimacing as he hears twin, "Richards!"

"Sounds like Kate will handle you for me," Martha says, laughing. "Bye, dear."

"Talk to you soon," he says in parting, hanging up before he dares look over at Kate. "I hardly think that deserved a Richard from you."

"Don't be disrespectful," she chides, knocking their hands against his thigh.

"I wasn't," he protests. "I was trying to save Jack from an early heart attack."

"You mother's cooked for me before," she says. "And I'm just fine."

He sighs and gives a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah, but, she—that's different."

"How so?"

"It just is," he grumbles.

Kate laughs and he sinks down in his seat. Maybe he was a little bit rude. But they always are. It's their way.

"How is she?"

"She sounds happy," he sighs. "Which is good."

"Have you spent much time with Jack?"

He shakes his head. "Not much outside of the bank explosion." Her hand tightens around his and he brings them to his lips to kiss her fingers, trying to soothe what's nearly a year old panic for them both. "He's come to pick her up a few times—seems like a good guy."

"Are you worried about her?" Kate asks, glancing over as he lets their hands fall.

"I don't know," he tells her honestly. "If he doesn't swindle her, or die, I guess not."

She hums and bobs her head as he stares out the window. He would love it if his mother found someone, even if it makes him a bit uncomfortable. She's not a young woman, and the idea of her dating is faintly repulsive. At the same time, he wants her to have someone. They've never been particularly clingy, but he's not around much, and Alexis is at school, and he likes to think that his mother isn't lonely.

"She's still really living with you, right?' Kate asks a few minutes later.

"Yeah. Spends a lot of her time with Jack, but she's home every other night or so. I mean, I think. She was before we left. You know that."

Kate laughs softly. "Yeah, I do."

"Pitfalls of living with your mother," he adds, remembering that afternoon two days before they left, when she caught them on the couch. Only his mother could play that off. It's got to be about as weird to catch your 40-year-old son on the couch as it is for him catch you with a former co-star.

"Never lonely, though," she says, rolling her shoulders as she shifts in her seat. "Weird, I'm sure, but it's gotta be nice to come home to a family every night, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees, watching her. "It is. You're always welcome to come home with me, you know."

"I do," she says quickly. "And I like to. I just meant—I don't know, really. Just, I like my place, but it's empty." She looks over at him with a small, confused smile. "I'm not sure what I'm saying."

"That maybe in the last year it would have been nice to have someone to go home to?" he suggests quietly.

"Yeah," she breathes out.

"I'm sorry," pops out before he can think it through. He is though. The thought of her going through all of it alone—the PTSD, the cases, the pain and physical struggle—tears at his heart.

"No," she sighs. "I needed the space."

He nods and brushes his fingers over her pulse. "I just wish…"

"Me too," she murmurs. "But you're here now," she adds cheerily. "And I'm sure I'll want to kick you out enough every so often to remind me why the space was a good thing."

"Wow," he murmurs, grinning despite the low blow. "That hurts, Beckett."

She laughs and tips her sunglasses down over her eyes as sunlight breaks through the thin cloud cover, bathing the road in shadow patterns and broad swatches of light.

"How's her school going?" she asks after a few quiet minutes.

"Good," he says slowly. "Really good, actually. She's got about 40 students so far, and I think that's about what she needs to break even the first year. Though, I guess it's all profit. Chet's money paid for almost everything."

"And you won't let her pay you back, right?" she concludes, affection lacing her voice.

"I actually didn't give her anything," he admits. "I wanted to help, but she wouldn't let me. It was all in loans, but I think she's been paying that off in chunks."

"Jack?" Kate wonders with a small smile.

"I think so. Better hope it keeps going well," he replies. Oh, when did he get so cynical?

"You really need to stop expecting that everyone your mother and daughter date is out to get them."

"I…don't?" he says, though it's more a question than anything else.

"You do. It's kind of sweet, but also kind of cloying."

"Good word."

She laughs. "Thanks, but still. Let them worry. They're strong enough to be smart about it."

"Yeah," he agrees, slumping and probably pouting a little. "They don't really need me, do they?"

She shakes her head. "Course they do," she says, patting his thigh with their hands. "Alexis needs her dad, and sometimes she even needs you to be crazy and overprotective, and of course Martha needs you. Moms need their kids, just like kids need their moms."

He looks over, but she's still smiling, still consoling him, like she doesn't really realize what she's just said. But then she breathes and he can see the slight strain, the extra lines around her smile, the tightness of her eyes.

"Hey," he says quietly. "You wanna call your dad?"

She shakes her head. "Not right now?"

"Okay." He squeezes her hand and she shakes her head lightly. "You okay?"

"I'm just fine," she says confidently. "Most embarrassing story about public sanitation," she continues, using their hands to point to a garbage truck passing them in the oncoming lane.

He bobs his head, willing to let it go for the time being. He'll hold her, or let her talk, or something later—like she's done for him for the past few days. But now, he'll entertain her. He's good at that.

"Well, there was one time when a few buddies of mine and I swiped my mom's best bottle of scotch and went back behind the Shubert during a show…"

(…)

Gina doesn't think his description of Providence NYC gives enough flavor. He sighs and scrolls through the website, trying to match it against the scene in _Frozen Heat_ where Nikki crashes a socialite dinner there. Maybe he did get the lighting wrong.

He glances up at Kate as she wanders the room, pausing at the windows as she talks softly with her father. She has an arm across her chest, but she's relaxed and barefoot—domestic and lovely. He has to pry his eyes away to focus on the pictures. Ideally, he'd just go see the space, but he can't do that now, and in all grudging fairness to Gina, he didn't take a good deal of time the first time around.

His eyes scan the photos, imagining people dancing, the couches cleared from the floor, a small stage set up along the far wall for the silent auction. It's probably not really right for Nikki, but wow, it would be beautiful. The chandelier is amazing, and the place has all these nooks where they could set up tables and things for the benefit.

The benefit. Her mother's benefit.

"Hey, Kate," he calls softly as she hangs up the phone and rests against the windows.

"Hmm?"

"Come here," he beckons, smiling as she pushes off from the glass and makes her way back to him, feet lost in the plush carpet, hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

She climbs up onto the bed and leans into his shoulder as he angles the laptop toward her. Her fingers come to toy with the hairs on the nape of his neck and he feels himself relaxing, the Gina-tension leaking out of his body and into the soft pillows behind them.

"What's up?" she asks, prompting him back from his descent into comfort.

"What do you think of this place?" He clicks through a few of the pop-out pictures, watching her reaction.

She smiles and reaches over to stall his hand, staring at the large picture of the wooden floor. "It's nice," she offers. "Why?"

"Well, initially, Nikki was going to bust up a party here, but I was thinking maybe it might be a good place for your mom's Benefit." She goes still beside him. "It's intimate, but big, and we could have a band, dancing—the works. And we could have a silent auction off to the side. There's tons of space for private conversation too, since it's a benefit, not a party, and I was think—"

She cuts him off with a swift, slightly awkward kiss. Too much tongue and too much laptop in the way, but they make it work. He steadies her as she leans over him, her hands cradling his cheeks, body tense and alight beneath his hands.

"That…that okay?" he manages as they pull apart.

She nods mutely, eyes suspiciously shiny. "Thank you," she whispers.

He smiles and smoothes back a piece of hair that's fallen out of her pony tail. He reaches out and slides the laptop across the bed so he can pull her into his lap, watching as she battles with something, a cross of grief and wonder.

"You still want to?" she asks and his jaw drops open.

"Of course," he says quickly. "I said so about two weeks ago. Why on earth would that have changed?"

"We," she pauses and shakes her head. "I'm stupid. We closed the case, and the farther we got, the less I thoug—I'm stupid, ignore me."

"Hey, no, not stupid," he urges, sitting up and pulling her so her legs rest on either side of his hips, her body settled in the vee of his legs.

She takes a shallow breath and he thinks maybe it's too open, the position too intimate. But then her fingers come to toy with his buttons, gently opening his shirt so casually, so normally, like it's just what they do. It is. It is what they do—this new them, this freed them.

"I get it," he says, bringing her eyes back to his. "But I still think we should honor her, help other people follow in her footsteps."

She nods slowly. "I—yeah."

"And you like the venue?" he adds, bending forward to catch her eyes as she looks down toward her hands resting on his hips. He squeezes her knees.

"It's lovely," she says softly.

"Do you want me to have Paula look for dates around the holidays? People are always in a giving mood around then."

She blinks and swallows hard. "This year?"

"We can wait," he says quickly. Maybe it would be too much. She can't quite joke about motherhood in general; maybe a whole night of her mother would be too much, too raw.

"No," she says slowly. "No, that would be—it would be perfect. And we shouldn't keep that money from kids just because I'm," she breaks off and cants forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder, pulling her body flush with his, surrounding him as he cradles her. "Because I'm still hurting," she finishes, lips moving against his clavicle.

"I can let Paula handle it. She'll find a planner and help me develop a committee and everything, and they can work with the universities. I'll just come to you to okay things," he suggests, hoping maybe lifting the burden of responsibility might lift the weight of grief for her.

"I want to be involved," she mumbles. "I don't know how much but," she pauses to breathe against him. "Could I?"

"Of course," he says quickly. "Me too, or just you—whatever you want."

"A few days to think?"

He smiles into her hair and squeezes her against him. "I can definitely give you that."

"Good," she sighs. She pulls back after a few minutes and smiles at him, bringing her hand up to thread into his hair. "You're something else, you know?"

He chuckles and turns to kiss her arm. "Thanks?"

She laughs and leans forward to kiss him gently, full of love and adoration and amazement. "It's a compliment," she whispers, sharing his breath.


	20. Chapter 20

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I mean, my imaginary contract's pretty cool.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20:<strong>

"Castle?" she calls out, coming out of the bathroom in shorts and a tank top he hadn't realized she'd brought with her. "You still in the zone?"

He nods distractedly and glances up at her, his fingers buzzing with the urge to write. They were supposed to leave this morning, but he woke up with the next scene for _Frozen Heat_ tipping out of his head and started writing. Now it's been two hours and he's still going.

"I'm gonna go out for a run, and then maybe we'll hit the road after I shower?" she suggests, walking over to lean over his shoulder.

He grunts and shifts away, hiding the laptop to the sound of her laughter. She ruffles his hair and he hears more than sees her sit down on the coffee table to lace up her running shoes. It takes him an inordinate amount of time to remember that the gym is out of service.

"Hey," he says, snapping his head around to find her just at the door, sliding her key card behind her iPhone in her arm strap. "Where are you running?"

"I mapped out a good circuit earlier. I should only be an hour. I'll stay on the sidewalk," she says, leaning back against the door to meet his eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

"You're going to run in the city," he states, letting it tumble around in his head. That's not—it's not safe. "I don't think that's…I know there's a gym in Edmonton. I can leave now. This can sit," he adds, gesturing to the laptop he's slid onto the table.

"I'll be gone for an hour. Keep writing," she urges, shifting against the door.

"No, really, let's just go," he argues, standing and running his fingers through his messy hair—her fault.

"I could really use the run before we're cooped up again," she says slowly. "And you should shower, maybe eat something?"

Damn. She needs the exercise. He doesn't have a counter argument for that. "You sure?" he hedges.

She arches an eyebrow. Of course she's sure. "Yes," she lets out, sitting on the 's' for long enough to let him know that he's edging into dangerous territory.

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. They don't know this city. It was just supposed to be a layover here anyway. He doesn't want her out alone, without him, somewhere strange and new and potentially dangerous.

"I just don't think it's a—" he swallows as her eyes narrow. "I mean, I, uh," he equivocates.

"Are you saying you don't want me to go for a run?" she asks, point blank.

He shifts on his feet. "I could come with you?" he suggests, and she goes from narrow to glaring.

"Are you—I'll be perfectly fine on my own," she asserts.

"I…know," he says. "I just, uh." He stops and closes his eyes, puffing out his cheeks. "I'm being protective, and it's pissing you off," he admits, opening his eyes to meet her startled gaze.

"You," she pauses and considers him, across the room. "Yeah, a little."

"I don't like—I know you can take care of yourself."

"I can. And I told you I was leaving. I have my phone," she adds for him. "Trained cop, too, for what it's worth."

He groans and walks over to sink down on the bed, bending forward to rest his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. He knows she'll be fine. He's irrational, but he wants to ask her to stay, and he can't, because she's Kate, and she needs to run. His anxiety can't keep her from being normal, especially if she herself is ready to go run in a strange city. That's a step for her. It just has the added benefit of turning his heart to lead and churning his stomach into a pulp.

"We've got to start taking baby steps," she says, still against the door. But her voice is soft and when he looks up, she's dropped her arms from her chest. "It's a small city, in the middle of nowhere," she continues. "I'll be just fine."

"I know," he says, and he hears the bite in it, but can't quite find it in himself to stop it.

"Rick," she sighs. "Come on."

"I'm not going to like it," he shrugs. "So go for your run, and then when you get back, I'll have room service waiting."

She shakes her head and purses her lips, hands clenched by her sides. "You're really going to play it that way?"

He meets her eyes and takes a breath before nodding. He can't make it go away, can't just will himself into acceptance for her. But he can't force her to stay—would never control her that way—so here they are. "I guess, yeah," he tacks on. "Go run."

"You're guilting me," she says, and her voice is a few degrees cooler.

"No," he groans. "No, I'm—I can't be okay with it, and I'm sorry for that. But I can't stop you."

"But you want to ask me not to," she concludes.

"No," he sighs. "No, I want—I don't know what I want, okay? Just go for your run."

"Stop it," she says, taking a step forward. "It's just a run."

"And it was just a funeral, and it was just a bust, and it was just a freezer," he argues. "We've had a lot of 'justs.' I'm not telling you anything. You need to run? Run."

"And come back to what? Are you going to hold this against me?" she asks, coming to stand a few feet from him.

No, he won't, he can't. He shouldn't. But he will. He will. Because she's ready, and he's not. He hangs his head and balls the comforter in his fists. Damnit. She's ready. She's healing, and he's not ready to let her go.

"I don't want to spend all day in a car with you pretending to not be mad," she tells him, exhaustion and exasperation heavy in her voice.

"I won't be mad. I'm not mad," he says, lifting his head to meet her eyes. "I'm—Just go run, Kate," he decides. "And when you get back, I'll…figure it out, or whatever."

"I don't want—"

"Go," he urges her, needs some solitude to figure himself out so he doesn't do this again, whatever it is he's doing now.

She stares at him for a long moment and then stalks away, the door slamming softly behind her. He lets himself fall back on the bed, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He didn't know this was still a problem.

Slowly, he gets up and gathers their things. He forces himself into jeans and a clean shirt, packs his laptop into their shared bag, corrals the chargers and iPad together on the bed. Then he sits. Then he stands. Then he paces. Rinse. Repeat. Panic. Calm.

Eventually, he ends up sitting back on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as he watches a rerun of Will and Grace. It's just a run. She's a trained cop, who can more than take care of herself—who can take care of him at the same time. She doesn't need his worry. He doesn't need his worry. And if this is ever going to work, he's going to have to get to a place where she can leave him without him having some kind of fit.

He strains for a solution, but he's got nothing. So he orders them room service, surprised to find that he's got 15 minutes before she'll be back. He makes the bed and then wanders the room, weaving around the little couch and table, the bed, the dressers, their suitcases on holders in the corner by the bathroom—a small land to prowl.

When the door opens, he finds himself rooted to the spot, watching as she drags the room service cart inside. She probably brushed the bellboy off, or tipped him or something. She's stubbornly independent, and he loves that about her—has to learn to love it about her again.

"You got waffles," she says, pushing the cart to the edge of the bed. "And strawberries."

"You like strawberries," he offers inanely.

She nods and brushes a flyaway off of her face before slipping off her armband. "I'm gonna take a quick shower. Eat, okay?"

"Without you?"

She sighs and runs a hand over the back of her neck. "Bathroom is a hell of a lot closer than the street. I think you can manage it."

"Wow," he mumbles, ambling over to sit down on the bed.

She slumps and shakes her head. "Gimme ten to get clean so I can kiss that one and make it better, 'kay?"

He looks up, surprised, and finds her smiling softly at him. He nods and she bites her lip before turning and striding into the bathroom. The door closes without a bang and he exhaustedly reaches for one of the mugs. Confusing, confusing woman.

By the time she comes out, he's eaten half a waffle and calmed his heart rate down. He's ridiculous, but she seems to love him anyway.

She slides behind the tray to sit next to him, warm and slightly wet and smelling like her cherry shampoo he's rather sure she brought just for him. Her hair rests in a limp, wet bun against the back of her neck, and the new tank she's got on under her button down is sticking to her stomach. He likes her like this—normal and human and living. Oh, get it together, man.

"You get any more work done while I was out?" she asks after a minute of silent eating.

"Nah," he mumbles around a bite. "Packed though."

She bobs her head and turns to look at him, smiling. "You wanna GPS track my phone?"

He nearly chokes on his coffee. "What?"

"That way you…know, and then I won't get pissed at you for trying to convince me out of going for a run," she explains, shrugging like she's not giving him permission to cyber-stalk her.

"You're serious," he says, still slack-jawed.

"Yes," she replies, reaching out to smooth down some of his hair. "Do you have a better idea?"

"No," he mumbles. "But that feels—"

"Weird," she supplies. "Yeah, but…you know, it's not a bad idea, and it'll make you comfortable."

"It's not too protective for you?" he asks, has to, can't understand how it's at all possible that she's suggesting this.

She laughs. "Oh, it is, completely. But right now, I don't really care so much."

"I love you?" he says, and she shakes her head, leaning in to kiss his temple.

"It's purely for my own devices, don't love me too much," she says against his skin. "And if you ever tell the boys I let you do this, you will die a very painful, very slow death."

"Noted," he says with a chuckle. "You don't have to. I'll…I'll work it out on my own."

"And have to watch you panic every time I want to go exploring, or, jeez, when we get back to the city? No thanks. We'll set it up when we hit Edmonton."

"Okay," he says quietly. "Thank you, I—"

She catches his lips in a swift, slightly aggressive kiss, and her mouth swallows his words, his thanks, his confusion and love and respect.

"Eat your waffle," she murmurs as they pull apart.

(…)

She's gone picture crazy. Every 30 feet they have to stop so she can capture something—the light, the flowers, the trees, his shoe by that fern at just the right angle. He's a patient man. But, come on, this is getting a little ridiculous.

"Kate," he sighs as she tugs on his arm, pulling him to a halt not two feet from their last stop. Maybe it's the sun shining down through the glass, refracting onto a lower pane at the base of the large pyramid—he's losing his unending ability to stop and start.

"Sorry," she says, grinning at him. "It's just so gorgeous. Who would have thought there'd be these things in the middle of Canada," she continues, twirling around to look at the clear blue sky above them.

"I feel like you count Canada out too much," he teases, laughing as she spins around to glare at him. She's so beautiful it's almost painful.

"This from the man who spent an hour of our drive yesterday bemoaning how repetitive the scenery was."

"To be fair, I'd do that in the States too. Actually, when Alexis came with me on my Euro tour maybe eight years ago, she and Gina forced me into the back of the car because I complained so much on the trip across Fra—I'm not really winning, am I?"

She laughs and shakes her head, sidling over to run her hands up his chest to curl behind his neck. "It was funny for the first forty-five," she admits, arching up to find his lips in a chaste kiss. "Let's go see the changing exhibit."

"Chrysanthemums?" he wonders, letting her take his hand and tug him toward the exit of their current pyramid. He has to admit, the Muttart Conservatory exhibits are pretty amazing, but he doesn't think this new one can beat the tropical paradise they're in now.

"Come on," she says, nearly whining in excitement or consternation when he doesn't keep up quickly enough. Who knew he could get her this excited about flowers.

He laughs and follows her to their last pyramid, crowding into her as she stops short a little ways inside. "Ka—"

He falters as a flashbulb goes off. He watches across the room as the groom in the corner dips his bride, their soft laughter carrying around the nearly empty exhibit. The blonde stands tall after a moment and the two stare at each other, grinning, hands clasped between them as the flash goes off two, three, times.

"There should have been a sign," Kate whispers, leaning back into him as his arms wrap unconsciously around her waist. He nods, his cheek brushing against hers. "Beautiful photos," she adds, her fingers twining with his. "Wow."

"Yeah," he agrees, eyes caught on the enraptured couple in the corner. But his body, his mind, is trapped, stuck, swallowed by Kate—by the softness of her stance, the wistfulness in her voice, the pliant, supple way she's leaning against him.

"Nice dress," she whispers.

He shrugs. It is; it clings to the woman's bust, tight and beaded before it softens into a flowing, shifting white fabric at her waist. It spins with her as her groom twirls her beneath his arm, their laughter ringing around the room. Castle notices that a few other couples are suspended on the edges of the exhibit, just watching. The photographer looks like a friend—perhaps it was a spur of the moment idea.

"You'd look better in it," he mumbles against her ear. She slaps his arm but he can feel her smiling against his cheek. "You would."

"Shut up," she whispers.

"You'd look better out of it too," he adds, laughing silently as she shivers against him and lightly stomps on his toes.

"Do you want a big ceremony?" she asks a minute later.

He stumbles and he feels one of her hands leave his arms to cover her mouth, muffling her laughter. Oh, she's evil. "Yes," he whispers, grinning as she stiffens. "With lots of press, and dignitaries and pomp."

"Ass," she hisses after a pause. He laughs into her neck. "Seriously, though."

"As long as Alexis is there with my mother and your father, I'd marry you in a courthouse tomorrow in Calgary," he says, kissing her skin when she sucks in a breath. "But I'd like the boys there too, and Lanie—our friends, and family, no more, no less."

She sighs and relaxes against him again, her fingers tripping up and down his forearms. In all reality, why didn't he bring a ring with him? He's had enough sleepless nights in the last year to have gotten one. It is the kind of stupidly hopeful thing he would do.

"That sounds perfect," she murmurs.

"Yeah, it does," he agrees. "Maybe on the beach?"

"Maybe." She turns in his arms then and brings her hands to his face. "I'm not saying soon," she says sternly.

He grins. "No backhanded proposals, Kate," he chides, watching as her face blossoms into a broad smile.

"I kind of thought letting you track my every move was pretty good," she whispers.

"Only if your coordinates somehow spell out, "Marry me, Castle," and that seems absurdly impractical," he tosses back. But the woman has agreed to let him track her; that's huge, in a kind of creepily romantic way.

"Oh, so I'm proposing now?" she says, swaying a little, bringing him into a slow dance that has no music, just the sounds of her laughter and the titters from the newlyweds behind them.

"You do wear the pants," he says, shrugging.

She grins and leans into him to feather her lips along his jaw. "I like your pants," she husks as she makes her way up to his ear.

"Tease," he hums back.

"Take me back to the hotel, Mr. Castle," she says, pushing up on the balls of her feet to be at his eye level. "That ridiculously expensive whirlpool tub isn't going to use itself."


	21. Chapter 21

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: It doesn't snow in April in Los Angeles. Seriously. There were snow plows.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21:<strong>

"You look utterly ridiculous, you know that?" she says, reaching up to tweak his ten-gallon hat.

"I look rugged," he rebuffs, grinning at her and waggling his eyebrows as she shakes her head. He does look a little silly, but a little awesome as well. And she's so amused by him, he'll wear the damn thing all afternoon.

"People are staring," she mumbles, leaning into him as they skirt around a larger group of tourists, walking up into the stands.

"Hate to burst your bubble," he says, bending down, bumping her forehead with his hat. "But they're staring at you, babe," he explains, eyeing a man who's nearly stumbling as he watches them pass.

She looks incredible, in tight skinny jeans, boots he didn't even know she had with them, and a tight white tee shirt. She has her hair down and sunglasses over her eyes; she's a movie star at the rodeo and there isn't a man around who isn't checking her out. Staring at him? Yeah right.

"Shut up," she grumbles, but he sees the small smile pulling at her lips. He's seen it a lot today; he's been staring too. "Over there," she adds, pointing to two open seats near the top of the stands.

"Perfect." He follows her through, twisting by and dodging knees and elbows. She yanks him down beside her and he grins as she scoots close—too cold in just that tee shirt she swore would be enough.

"Of all the things to go do," she offers a few minutes later, when they've acclimated to the cacophonous bustle around them.

"I'm kind of amazed I've never been to one before," he admits, scanning the huge dirt track in front of the grandstand, hoping to get a glimpse of a bucking bronco, or a horse, or a bull. He's not that well informed, come to think of it.

"Me too," she says, laughing. "Humans versus Zombies, rodeos—where's the Rick Castle I know who's into everything?"

"Some detective kept him busy all summer," he says easily. She stiffens slightly and he lets out a slow breath. "She kept distracting me with her hot body and theories; my laptop just couldn't compete."

"Your laptop better not be trying to compete," she grumbles into his shoulder, relaxing against him.

"Really? A conversation about porn at the rodeo?"

"Castle," she gasps, laughing. "A little subtlety, please."

He chuckles into her hair, his lips pressed to the crown of her head as they sit smashed together on the hard metal bench. It's nice to be outside for the day. They spent most of yesterday driving from Edmonton to Calgary, and then spent the night camped out in their room. When they go on their honeymoon—when, not if, he grins to himself—they really should consider just getting an enormous suite somewhere, and staying there for two weeks, just in the room. He knows he'll never get tired of it. Though, he has to admit, his thighs are a little sore, and his back.

Her fingers come to find his bottom vertebrae, massaging into his muscle as if she's reading his mind. "You're a little stiff," she hums into his shoulder.

"Kate," he scoffs. "A little subtlety!"

She giggles against him and lifts her head to meet his eyes. "I'm a little stiff too," she says, arching an eyebrow at him that makes him want to crawl behind the bleachers and go back to high school with her.

He shakes his head and leans forward to find her lips, grinning as her hand stills on his back, unable to multitask.

"Don't be smug," she whispers as they pull apart at the commotion down on the track. Horses are being led out and ridden by cowboys. Real cowboys. "You're cute," she adds, catching him off guard as he watches the prelude to the show with rapt attention.

"Hmm?" he offers, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Nothing," she murmurs, sliding closer to rest her chin on his shoulder as they watch and listen to the introductions, the rules, the set up for the Bareback competition.

"That just—" he trails off as they explain the rig for the horse, the lack of saddle, the force that jostles the man's arm.

"Please don't ever do this," Kate beseeches him.

"Worried about my safety?" he asks, smug and warmed by the tone of her voice.

"Worried about your swimmers," she tosses back. He coughs and she laughs in his ear. "And you, maybe a little."

"Good to know you have your priorities straight," he manages.

"I'm really just keeping you around for your genes," she hums, her fingers trailing up his thigh.

"You want your kids to be literary geniuses?" he wonders, catching her hand with the one not wrapped around her shoulders. The woman seems to have little issue pushing his limits in public—so very Beckett of her.

"I want them to be like Alexis," she explains, squeezing his fingers.

He opens his mouth, lost for a way to properly thank her for that sentiment, but his garbled thoughts are lost to the bombastic, echoing gunshot that releases the first rider and his horse onto the track.

All of the softness, the warmth, is gone from his side. Kate is rigid beside him, her hand a vice around his fingers. He glances over at her and finds her sheet white with her jaw clenched shut, eyes closed as she forces herself to breathe through her nose.

"Kate," he says softly, rubbing her shoulder slowly.

She shakes her head mutely, bringing her free hand down to grip at the metal bench. A hand on his shoulder startles him, the grip strong and intimidating. He jumps and Kate nearly falls over with the shock of the motion as he whips around to stare at a guy who's doing a credible impression of Yosemite Sam, with a gray beard and a huge ten-gallon hat.

"Gunshot scared your little lady?" he asks, grinning crookedly at them as Castle tries to stem his own speeding heart rate.

He glances at Kate and back to the man, unnerved by the contact and the way the lecherous old geezer is eyeing his girlfriend. "My 'little lady,' deals in gunshots, actually," he grunts out, feeling so damn protective and on edge. "And I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself."

The man raises his hands in mock supplication and then elbows his friend, having a not-so-silent laugh at the pair of them. Castle turns around, more concerned about Kate than whatever joke they're sharing. She's still stiff and still, but she's swaying—not enough air coming in to keep her upright for much longer. And this seemed like such an awesome idea a few minutes ago.

"Hey, come on," he says gently, forcing his own voice to be steady so they can get the hell out of here. He takes her hands and tugs lightly until she opens her eyes and finds his, hers cloudy and unfocused. "Let's get out of here," he clarifies just as a huge roar rips through the crowd. The Cowboy's getting bested by the bronco. Shame.

She shudders. "Show," she says, mono-syllabic and strained, but there.

"So not important," he argues, taking off his hat so she can see his eyes. "There's stairs down the back. Come on."

"I can do it," she retorts, turning to look at him, eyes wide and face straining against tension he knows she just wants to push through.

"Why though?" he asks, leaning toward her, tentatively pulling her back into him. She comes willingly and tucks herself against his side.

"Because," she lets out slowly.

"Because?"

"Because I—" Another roar followed by another gunshot to signal the end of the match blasts through the stadium. "Can't. Can't, come on," she says, standing suddenly and striding past him with a forced calm that's chilling to watch.

He scrambles up after her, catching her hand as she starts climbing up to the very back of the stands to reach the exit. The two men who were sitting behind them laugh, but what does it matter? Kate needs to get out, and honestly, he's not doing so hot himself.

They stumble down the stairs and he reaches out more than once to steady her, or himself, he's not sure. It's just the rodeo—just horses and danger for the performers, fun for the crowd. But it's too much, too loud, too forceful for them both. A Caribbean beach sounds pretty damn good about now.

He follows her down into the midway, until they're walking along, bright lights and more yelling on either side. It was fun, walking to the stadium from the far lot. He beat her at whack-a-mole and she let him keep the teddy bear, laughed and humored his victory dance. He twirled her around and they whispered about the passing couples, spinning stories together as they walked past rides and fair food stands.

Now, though, it's a tumult of noise and bangs and booms. With every one she twitches, her hand clamping around his—their only point of contact. He's hyper vigilant now, and every passing stranger seems a threat in this innocent, happy environment. The sunlight is too bright. He left his hat. Shit, how are they ever going to survive back in New York? If two weeks and change on the road hasn't fixed them, what will? They can't keep living like this.

"This way," she says abruptly, pulling him down a quieter sidewalk that leads to the parking lot. "Whose idea was it to walk through the carnival?" she mumbles, tugging him at a quick trot toward the cars, her gait almost desperately stiff.

"Yours," he says softly, keeping up with minimal effort. He'd be proud if he wasn't in such a hurry to get out himself. "It was fun," he adds as she steps closer.

They pass through the gate and he hears her let out a sigh of relief. It doesn't release her from it, but she stands a little taller, walks a little slower now—now that danger has passed. Danger. The carnival is danger. The gunshot at the rodeo is danger.

"Talk in the car," she directs when he starts to slow down. "Please," she continues, giving him a brief glimpse of her, shades back over her eyes. But her mouth is soft, and he can see the need there, the need for the safety of four walls, such as they may be.

He nods and it's a short, silent walk back to their little car. She lets him take the driver's seat. He can't quite imagine her driving right now, though, he can't quite see himself doing it either. The stationary metal will have to be barrier enough.

They sit in silence for a minute until it's broken by the pound of her fist against the cushion of her seat. "Damnit," she growls. "Damnit."

"Hey," he says quickly, grabbing her hand before she moves on to pounding on her thighs. "One day doesn't mean failure."

"I deal in gunshots, Castle," she hisses, ripping her glasses from her face and tossing them carelessly onto the dashboard. "You said it yourself."

His heart sinks as she looks at him, her eyes flashing but full with tears she's trying not to shed, her hand balled in a tight fist beneath his, the other dragging roughly across her denim-clad thigh. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but she shakes her head.

"How am I supposed to be a cop if I can't deal with a recreational shot? It was a blank, not even a bullet," she says through clenched teeth. "How the hell am I supposed to do this?"

He gently pries her fingers apart, leaning over the console toward her as she sways in her seat. He threads their hands together, hers still so tense in his. He's edgy, but something about it—the question, the wondering—has snapped him out. What if? What if she doesn't do it? Is it an option, could she want that, does he want that for her—for her to come home every night, to not wonder, to not wish for her safety?

"Do you," he pauses and licks his lips, rolling the question on his tongue, so unsure. "Do you want to?"

She whips her head toward his so fast he hears the crunch of bone in her neck. "What?" she barks, but she's winded with it, he can tell—no bite, all sound, all breath.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks softly.

"Why—why would you even ask me that?" she demands, but she's losing steam. "Of course. Of course I…do."

He watches as her eyes fall shut and she clamps down on her bottom lip. "It's okay if you don't want to," he says quickly. She sucks in a breath and he grows bolder, leaning toward her, a hand on her thigh. "It's okay if you're not eager to get back to it."

"I'm a cop," she defends on a whisper.

"You're you. You've been a cop. You could still be a cop. But being a cop isn't what makes you Kate; it's not even what makes you Beckett."

Her eyes snap open and she stares at him, searching him, her mouth parted in silent question. She swallows and covers the hand he has on her thigh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he promises, bending to kiss her shoulder—the only place he can easily reach.

"Something about strength and soul and hotness, right?" she mumbles, leaning her head back, finally coming down.

He feel the muscles of her thigh relax beneath their hands and he smiles. "Something like that," he agrees. "And your passion, and your drive, and your dedication, your love—your ability to love and protect. Whether that's as a cop, or my girlfriend, or a mom, or a lawyer, it's still you," he insists. "It's still who you are, and what you've become—the woman I'm in love with."

"But I'm," she breaks off and stares at him pleadingly. "I've been a cop, I don't—I don't want to be something else, but I…I don't know what to do, how to," she rattles. "I need to just get over this."

"It doesn't work that way, right?" he says gently. "It's not a matter of will."

"It should be," she growls. "I should be stronger."

He shakes his head and squeezes her fingers until her tired, aching, angry, defeated eyes find their way back to his. "So maybe you take a few months," he says with a shrug. "Maybe you help me promote the book—go on tour with me, follow me for a change," he suggests, smiling as she huffs at him. "Or maybe you take some classes, or we just keep on trekking. I can take us to Europe. We could do that."

"I—we can't just keep running away," she whispers. "I—what if I don't face it and then I never get better?"

"Oh. Oh, Kate, you will. You'll get better. We'll get you through this. You will get through this. I promise," he says urgently. "I promise."

"But what if I don't?" she breathes. "What if I never get back? What if I can't be a cop anymore, Castle? What do I do?"

"If it's what you want, you'll do it. I know you will. Maybe not right when we get back, but someday. Until then, you heal," he tells her, his eyes boring into hers. "We heal, and rest, and go to therapy, and someday, it'll be okay again."

"It was just a blank shot," she whispers and he watches as the first tear falls. "Just a stupid blank."

"It was a gunshot," he argues gently. "You get to do this, you know? You, above anyone, have the right to being freaked out."

"Did," she stalls and licks at her chapping lips. "Did you…I, no, it's not—forget I s—"

"Yes," he says quickly. "I did. Yeah. And the guy, that jerk? I was—I wanted a piece, glad I didn't have one. I would have shot him."

"No," she mumbles, squeezing his hand. "No guns for you."

"You're not alone in this," he replies. "I am just as screwed up as you are." She shakes her head but he leaves one of her hands to catch her chin. "Partners, right?"

"In PTSD?"

He shrugs a little and shifts to dry her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You got it, then so do I. I signed a waiver."

"Castle," she sighs, almost laughing, almost there.

He lets his hand fall and brings their clasped ones up so she can see them. "I'm gonna put a ring on your finger. I'll sign the full agreement then, but the waiver's a stand in. You've got me, Kate," he says firmly, waiting until her eyes come back to his, brighter, fuller, more alive. "You got this."


	22. Chapter 22

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: It might snow again tomorrow. Seriously. They don't have these problems in LA.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22:<strong>

"There's a TV in the bathroom," she announces as he puts their suitcases on the holders, already eyeing the comfortable couch and coffee table. The gym here is supposed to be amazing, so she can work out while he writes in the lap of luxury.

"Really?" he asks, surprised, turning to look at her. She's got her hands on her hips, caught halfway between amused and irritated. "You, uh, okay with that?"

"How much does this even cost?" she lets out. Frustrated—she's frustrated. He can work with that.

"You don't really want to know," he says honestly. "But it's gorgeous. Come on, let's go out to the balcony. The view is supposed to be amazing at night."

"Castle," she sighs, rubbing her forehead. "This is too much."

He lets out a slow breath and walks over to take her hands. She hasn't pulled this in a while, granted, it is the most elaborate room they've had since Winnipeg. But it's their last week, and he wants them to live a little, relax a little, settle in in Vancouver and really explore—not just stay a night or two and drive, drive, drive.

"It's not too much," he says gently. "We're here for four days, and you're gonna want some space; I'm gonna want some space. There's a great gym, and a good couch for writing, and the balcony too. It's perfect for us."

"We could have had a room with a couch somewhere less—" she trails off and looks at him.

"Less?" he prompts, wanting her to just spit it out so they can move on. It's not a new fight, by any means.

"Less millionaire," she admits with a shrug. "And I know you're a millionaire," she adds before he can even open his mouth. "But we don't—I'm just not—"

"Not fully comfortable with me throwing this much money around?"

She lifts her shoulder and shifts on her feet, her palms warm and almost sweating in his. "I'm grateful that you want to do this," she offers slowly. "For me, for us, I mean I—it's so generous of you."

"No," he says quickly, cutting her off as she takes another breath. "No, not generous. It's not generosity when it's you. This isn't about being nice," he argues.

"But—"

"No," he repeats. "Come on," he continues, guiding her around the bed and out onto the balcony. "Look," he prompts gently, turning her so she can see the expansive view of the glittering city, so different from Manhattan, but familiar too—a sense of home and normalcy emanating from the lights and the horns and the feel of a live city below and before them.

"This is why," he says as he crowds her back, wrapping his arms around her. "I want this. I want to give us this. I'm not being generous. I'm wholly selfish," he tells her ear, her neck, the curve of her jaw.

She huffs out a laugh. "You're not," she murmurs.

He trails his lips from her jaw to the spot below her ear, delights in her muted shiver. "I am. I want you all to myself, sleepy in that huge bed, sweaty after a workout, sated on the couch, and the chair, and in the tub, and in the bed," he says, grinning as she giggles. He loves that little breathy laugh. "I'm not generous. I'm selfish and needy."

She shakes her head, bumping his forehead with her cheek as her hands squeeze his arms. "Last thing you are is selfish," she says. "I just," she pauses and leans into him. "Am I ever going to pay for anything?" she wonders.

He can't help but chuckle. "What?"

"I mean, you're so eager and I can't just keep taking, but I can't afford this," she continues, her voice softer. "I can't take us to places like this. I can't buy Alexis a 700 dollar dress and not feel it. I can't go out to where Martha likes to eat every weekend."

"No one's asking you to," he says slowly.

"No one's asking you to either," she retorts quietly. "I just—what if I don't go back?"

He has to stop for a moment, has to switch gears for her. And she says his head is the twisty one. "Not—to the precinct?"

She nods. He lets out a breath and rubs circles against her stomach with his thumbs. She hasn't mentioned the possibility in two days. She just laughed and chatted and slept, badgered him as he drove. But he really should have seen it coming. She likes to think—over think.

"I just, I wouldn't be making money for a while, at least," she mumbles, her hands still on top of his arms. "And God, if I went back to school? I have some savings, but they'd be gone."

"So?" he whispers, waiting her out as she stiffens in his arms.

"So I just—I'd be living on ramen and water."

"Kate," he scoffs.

"Okay, fine, not that bad, but you get it," she reneges. "I had more before my old place blew up, but without the 12th, it would be gone pretty fast."

"Again, so?"

She swats at his arm. "I'm being serious here."

"So am I," he argues. "So what if you run low on cash? You think I'm going to stop dating you?"

"No," she says quickly, annoyed with him now. "No, but we're already uneven here."

He shakes his head and tries to turn her around in the circle of his arms, but she stands her ground. So it's not an eye-to-eye conversation. Fine. "We're not uneven. We've done this already."

"I can't just let you take care of me forever," she says, and he hears her voice crack.

"Why not?" he asks gently. "Why can't I put you through Law School, or Med School, or, I don't know, dance conservatory?"

"Dance conservatory?"

"Being serious here," he grumbles, relaxing a little as she laughs. "But really. Why not?"

"Because," she says, bumping his shoulder with the back of her head. "It's not—I'm not here for you to take care of, to pamper or whatever."

"Getting you back on your feet is hardly pampering. Putting you through Law School? It would be like paying to torture you for two or three years."

She shakes her head and he feels her fingers finally release against his arms, hands curling around him again. "I can't let you do that."

"Why not?" he asks again, more emphatic, maybe a little less gentle. "Why can't I take care of you, help you?"

"And then what?" she asks, her voice sharper, defensive, but not angry—somewhere between in love and fighting to stay still, to not run. "How can I ever—Law School, and paying for my apartment, and—too much. It's too much."

"Nothing is too much," he says firmly. "If it were reversed, and you could pay to help me publish for the first time, or train at the academy or, or, anything. Would you?"

"Not fair," she whispers.

He kisses her jaw, mouths against her skin, "If it were reversed, and you could take care of me, you would, right?"

She nods, and if he had the time, he'd relish in the idea that it's not even a question; they're equal, loving in the same way, with the same fierce protectiveness and devotion.

"Then why can't I do that for you?"

"Because I can't actually take care of you," she lets out, loud and a little desperate. "I can't—if I leave my job, if I stop, I'm going to be a wreck. More than now. I'm gonna get lost. And what if—"

"So get lost," he says, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Freak out, and wig out, and go a little crazy."

"Rick," she sighs.

"No, do it," he insists. "Get a little out of control. Go take a painting class and tell me you're gonna start a band. Demand my credit card and buy yourself a new wardrobe to keep at my place." She laughs, startled, and he bumps her cheek with his nose. "As long as I can do some of the crazy with you, I'm happy."

"And the fighting and depression and all of that? You'll—" she breaks off and he feels her take a deep breath beneath his hands. "You'll want that?"

"I want you," he sighs, sagging a little around her. She's a hard nut to crack, he gets it. But every time—every time it's like he has to tell her again, prove it again. He doesn't know what he's doing wrong, but he's doing something. "You keep asking and at some point, I'm just gonna shove a ring on your finger."

She turns in his arms then, boldly meeting his eyes, her hands rising to frame his face. "I love you," she whispers, arching up to press her forehead to his. "And I know. I do."

"Good," he manages, steadying her as she sways a little. They're tired and sore and hungry. Next trip, they're flying. Everywhere.

"I'm just out of it," she admits. "You mentioned it, and now it's there and I can't stop…wondering."

He nods against her forehead and leans forward to press his lips to hers. "Wonder away."

She shakes her head, sliding one hand behind his neck as she drops to the soles of her feet, bending forward to press her face to the crook of his neck as he wraps his arms around her. "Silly. It's silly."

"I wanted to be a History professor when I started college," he offers. She startles in his arms and he grins against the crown of her head. "I did."

"I—I can't see that," she mumbles against his skin, and he can feel her smiling.

"Me either. But I was good at it. Not as good at it as I am at writing, or tagging along," he continues, swaying more, dancing even, if he had to say it. "But I wanted it. Thought I might still want it when Alexis was about eight."

"Really?" she asks, pulling back to look at him, her face soft, like she knows exactly what he's trying to do. She probably does. Doesn't mean it doesn't work.

"Yeah. That was silly. This," he rubs her back. "This isn't silly."

"I do love being a cop," she says softly. "I do. I just—now I have closure," she adds, the last word a little stiff, a little rehearsed. "And I want."

"Want what?" he murmurs.

"Things," she sighs, shrugging, her chest rising and falling against his. "Life things. Family things."

"Family things," he repeats, smiling as she arches an eyebrow.

"Things with rings and babies and all that crap."

"Oh, honey, so sweet," he drawls as she laughs and whacks his shoulder. "I get it," he adds more seriously. "But we can have that stuff if you're a cop."

"I know," she whispers. "I do know. I just—I don't know what I'm saying, or thinking, or," she trails off and sighs, toying with his hair. "We're in Vancouver."

"We are," he agrees, lost again. Happily lost though, if she's thinking about babies and rings and family things. Oh, he can't use that as a Nikki Heat title. Maybe Family Things.

"And you got us this huge hotel room," she continues, her face cracking into a smile before she spins around and leans against his chest, laughing at his quiet huff as he catches her. "I'm just standing here trying to imagine having a ring on my finger and looking out at an ocean."

"Really?" he asks, unable to keep the elation out of his voice.

She nods and threads her fingers through his on her stomach. "I'm trying to figure out how I could possibly deal with having so much money."

He laughs, tension leaking out of him as she relaxes against his chest, her head back on his shoulder to look up at him. "Oh, I can teach you," he assures her. "We'll start tonight—order too much room service and raid the mini bar again."

(…)

"Hey, honey," he says, smiling as he leans back against the couch, phone pressed to his ear the next afternoon. He shoves his laptop off to the side and slouches down, head leaning back into the plush leather.

"Hey, dad," Alexis says, but she lacks her usual pep.

"You okay?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she says softly. "Is Kate there?"

Red Flags. Neon Signs. Guys with flairs directing planes dance at the front of his mind. Anything that needs Kate can't be good, especially if it's got his kid all soft and quiet and sad. "She's at the gym," he says reluctantly. "Did you try her?"

"I got her voicemail," she says slowly. "Should I have texted?"

"She checks those more often, I think," he agrees. "Can I help?" There's silence on the other end of the line, and he sits up, alert. He can't help? Oh, no, that's not good. "Alexis?"

He hears a quiet sniff. "I'm, um. No, I don't think so," she whispers. "But could you have her call when she gets back?"

The door opens then and he nearly falls over himself as he vaults off of the couch. "She's here. One sec, pumpkin." Kate watches him with wide eyes as he skids over to her. "It's Alexis. She needs to talk."

Kate nods slowly and takes the phone he's nearly shoving in her face. "Hey, Alexis," she says, patting him on the chest before she scoots away, leaving him to close the door.

He watches as she nods her way over to the bathroom, reaching inside for a small towel. She turns, her sweaty, slightly red face set in a frown, and he stands there, staring at her. She drags the towel over her neck and across her cheeks, lip between her teeth.

She's far enough away that he can't catch every soft-spoken word. But he hears, "Oh, Alexis." And then, "It'll be okay."

They can go back, right? They can just take a plane. Whatever that punk's done to his little girl, he'll do worse. He'll rip the kid limb from limb. Or something—he'll hurt him. He'll hunt him.

"Rick," she calls, snapping him out of murderous fantasies that are definitely too realistic and calculated to be considered normal at all.

He trips over himself as he walks to the couch, settling down beside her while she slides his laptop onto the coffee table. She takes his hand and squeezes as she hums in response to his daughter.

"No, he's here," she says, glancing over, her face soft and lovely and comforting. "I think you scared him a bit."

He shakes his head quickly, but she doesn't buy it. Neither does his kid, if the pad of Kate's thumb pressing the speaker button is any indication.

"I'm okay," Alexis says as Kate places the phone in his hand so she can cuddle up against him, warm and sweaty and heavy—a calming weight against his arm, across his thighs as she swings her legs up over his.

"I actually think your dad might be more helpful than me," Kate tells his daughter.

"What happened?" he asks, squeezing his girlfriend's knees with his free hand. There's silence for a moment, and he feels like his heart is about to leap out of his chest—some Cool Dad he is, really.

"Graham's mother died," Alexis says and he hears a little crack at the end. "And I don't know what to do."

"Oh honey," he sighs, rubbing circles over Kate's knee as she presses her lips to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," she murmurs. "Car crash. And he's just—I don't know how to help. He's sleeping now," she adds.

"Where are you?" Kate asks gently.

"In the bathroom," Alexis replies, and he hears a little laugh at the end. At least she can still laugh a little, even just at her location.

"Your place or his?" Kate continues.

"His," she says without preamble. His daughter's all grown up, with a boyfriend, a serious boyfriend. A motherless boyfriend. "I've got roommates, you know? And I just want him to be somewhere familiar."

"That's a good start," Castle says softly, forcing his words from his tight throat. "You're doing good, Alexis."

Kate rubs her hand against his arm as Alexis sniffles. "I, uh, I ordered Chinese for us, but he passed out, so I've got it all warming in the oven. And I," she pauses and takes a deep breath while his heart breaks for her. "I cleaned up a bit, organized his stuff. I emailed a couple professors I know he has classes with tomorrow. I mean, he should probably just email the school, right?"

"Right," Kate interjects. "They'll have policies and he can get out of work for a week or two, maybe more."

"But now I'm just here," she adds softly, timidly. "And I—he's not talking much. Hugged me, and I was there when he fell asleep, but what do I do? How can I—can I make it better?"

"Just be there," Kate tells her as she curls closer to him. "Just listen, and make him laugh when you can." He turns and kisses her forehead, so grateful for her, so in love with her, so sad for her and now his daughter too. "And be you, Alexis."

"Be me," she repeats slowly.

"You can't take the loss away," he says, digging to explain what he understands, what he's learned. "And you can't replace his mother." Kate reaches up to cup his neck, her hand warm and steady against his pulse. "But you don't have to do anything special; you don't have to change. I," he glances at Kate and she nods, smiling softly. "I think just being there with him will be enough. Let him know he's not alone."

"And if he tells you he needs space," Kate says, squeezing his neck. "Don't listen. Give him the living room, or take a walk, but come back, okay?" He turns and presses his lips to her hair, breathing her in, wishing.

"Okay," his daughter whispers. "And it gets better?"

Kate sighs against him and closes her eyes. "It does. Sometimes it gets worse first, but it will get better. It might take a while, but he'll be okay."

He hears his daughter suck in a breath and he switches the phone to his far hand so he can wrap his arm around Kate's shoulders. "And there'll be good in there too," he says. "You'll laugh. In a few days, ask him to tell you about her. Have you met her?"

"Once," Alexis whispers. "She's lovely—was lovely. Really, really lovely. They stayed in town for a few days last week; his dad had a meeting. I just can't imagine," she adds softly. "I'm so sorry, Kate."

Kate stiffens against him and then deflates. He sees her reach out and he holds the phone between them, watching in fascination as she runs a finger over the picture of his daughter on the screen.

"Thank you," she says, and he watches as she takes her hand back to wrap it into his shirt. "He's so lucky to have you, Alexis. Just like I'm lucky to have your dad."

He pulls her closer and rests his mouth against her forehead as she shifts up, nearly in his lap now. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" he asks Alexis.

"I'm fine," she says quickly. "I mean, it hurts. It really hurts to see him like this."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It does."

"And I just want to fix it. I want to bring her back so he doesn't look empty. He looks so empty."

"He'll look less empty," he assures her, meeting Kate's eyes, so vivid and full of life. "It just takes time."

"When's the service?" Kate asks as she pushes her forehead into his cheek, her hand over his heart.

"In four days. I want to go with him, but I have midterms in a week and he doesn't want me to miss my first midterms, you know?"

"The distance might be good at that point. Let him be with his family, and then be there to come back to," Kate says gently. "He'll call, and you can call."

"I know," she sighs. "I just—does he really help?"

"Does who help?" Kate asks.

"Dad. No offense, dad," Alexis adds as he chuckles. "Wait, I mean, you don't have to answer that no—"

"Yes," Kate says quickly. "So much, Alexis. I didn't have anyone right when my mom died, but I had your dad's books and that was…not enough, but something. And now? Now it's the difference between crying and drowning."

"Promise?" she whispers.

"I do. Not everyone grieves the same way. But I know even when I said I didn't need anyone, said I needed to be alone, I just desperately needed a hug and someone to be there while I cried myself to sleep."

He bends to kiss her cheek, her temple, any part of her he can reach, because his heart is broken and mended and full with her, with the way she's comforting his daughter, with her honesty. It's bursting with love and he can't touch or hold or thank enough of her at all.

"Thank you," Alexis says, and he hears her standing up with the rustle of the shower curtain she must be using as leverage. "I should go. But I love you guys."

"We love you too," Kate says softly.

"Call us if you need anything," Castle adds. "You'll do great, Alexis."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll call you soon."

"Bye, sweetie," he says and Kate echoes him just before the call cuts out.

He places the phone on the arm of the couch and wraps his free arm around her legs as she cuddles closer and presses her forehead to his jaw. They're silent for a few minutes, simply breathing together, fingers running patterns around found skin, lips feathering over cheeks and temples and throats.

"Poor Alexis," Kate whispers. "And poor Graham."

"She's in love with him, isn't she?" he asks in response.

Kate smiles into his shoulder. "I think so—getting there, at least. Hearing yourself in her a little bit?"

He laughs softly. "Yeah," he breathes, leaning into her as she strokes over his cheek. "You think he'll be okay, really?"

"I do," she tells him, pulling away so she can slide over him, her knees coming to rest on either side of his hips. "He's got his own Castle now. I think he'll be just fine."


	23. Chapter 23

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Maybe they are, but I don't think AWM and CO are sitting on tenterhooks for 10pm next Monday.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23:<strong>

She leans against him, head tilted up to watch the birds fly by, her chin resting on his shoulder. He looks down and catches her small sigh as her fingers trail across his back. He'd be distracted by the wildlife around them—so much color and sound and humidity—but she's captured him, drawn him in with the pensive pull of her brow.

"Hey," he murmurs, jostling her.

She huffs a laugh and gives him a muted smile. "Hey."

"What's up?"

She shrugs and glances up as a huge scarlet bird swoops overhead. "Scarlet Ibis," she says softly, pointing distractedly as the bird flies out of sight.

"Oh," he offers dumbly. "You, uh—okay." So the big red bird made her sad. Sure, sure.

She simply shrugs and moves away to slide her hand into the crook of his elbow, steering him further down the path so they can join a small group looking up at a sloth. He follows her, watching the subtle curve of her shoulders, the way she's standing small, thoughtful, a little melancholy. Is it Alexis, Graham? Does the bird have something to do with her mother?

"Sometimes I think you'd make a good sloth," she offers as he steps up beside her, following the tug of her hand.

"Excuse me?" he grunts, laughing. "Seriously?"

"Well, you're too manic, for sure," she says, grinning at him. "But the lazy part? Or was it another author who didn't want to get out of bed to come to the aquarium?"

"I didn't want to stay in bed," he protests. "I wanted to stay in bed with my gorgeous," he leans down to press his lips to her ear, "naked girlfriend. Very different."

She laughs and nudges at his shoulder even as her fingers squeeze his arm. "Fine. You're not having fun?"

"Never said it was a question of fun," he argues. "This is fun. It's amazing."

"Yeah," she agrees, letting her gaze wander around the room. "You wanna see the frogs next?"

He smiles and presses his lips to her forehead, mumbling a "yes," into her skin. She reaches up with her free hand to touch his cheek for a moment, her eyes closed, before she steps away, letting her fingers trail down to curl through his.

"You okay?" he asks timidly, when her face has fallen slack, her eyes growing distant.

"No. Yeah. Just—" She sighs and turns to him, letting him tug her off to the side so they're out of the moving traffic of interested people. "Did you ever read _The Scarlet Ibis_?"

He shakes his head, curious now. She closes her eyes for a moment and squeezes his hand.

"In the story, a little boy wants a little brother, but his mother gives birth to a sickly baby. The boy calls him Doodle. They don't expect him to live, but he does, and the boy starts to have hope." She pauses and looks up as another Ibis crosses the room above them. "When Doodle's five, a Scarlet Ibis shows up, blown off course by a storm. It can't handle the cold and the rain, so it dies, and Doodle buries it."

"Oh," he says slowly. Sad, but not—not whatever it's made Kate feel.

She shakes her head and gives him a small smile. "No, that's not—later, the boy is trying to train Doodle to be stronger, but gets frustrated and leaves him out in the rain. When he goes back to find him, Doodle's lying by a nightshade bush with blood in his mouth, dead, like the Ibis, in the_ heresy of the rain_." She closes her eyes and blows out a breath before she meets his gaze.

"Oh," he repeats, drawing her closer so he can wrap his arms around her. "I—that's horrible." Kate nods into his shoulder. "Is it—does it have something to do with—you okay?" he manages, a little lost with the story and the way she's melting into him, sad and fragile.

"No, not my mom," she whispers, one of her hands gliding up to thread into his hair. "No, just—" She pauses and shakes her head, pulling back with a half-hearted smile. "Alexis sounded so sad this morning."

He sighs and nods, brushing her forehead with his jaw, feeling like he can follow her now, a little. "She said she'd call tonight after they Skyped."

"I just remember what it was like, the funeral and having to—all those people who wanted to say things and Dad was just mute."

"Do you wish you'd had someone?" he wonders, watching as one of the large scarlet birds flies down to land in the marshy area ten feet from them.

"To shelter me from the rain," she whispers into his throat. "Sometimes I do."

"I wish," he says, letting himself trail off. He wouldn't have been good at it then, wouldn't have known how to take care of her, how to keep his own head above water while she struggled to swim. He barely knows how now—can't quite keep her emotions from his.

"No," she mumbles. "No, I like—now is good," she decides, pulling away to meet his eyes. "And it's good for him to be with his family, let Alexis take care of Alexis. I just—the story—I read it in school the semester before she died."

"So it hits home," he extrapolates, smiling as she nods slowly and presses a kiss to the palm he's laid against her cheek.

They stare at each other for a minute, the sounds of an indoor tropical jungle ringing around them—a different world surrounding them amidst their cocoon of remembrance and heartache.

"Frogs?" she asks, her eyes brightening slightly, pulling from a reserve somewhere deep inside.

He draws the exuberance from her, lets her change of mood lift his own. "Frogs."

(…)

"Lanie. Lanie, I can't really hear you," Kate says, pressing her hand over her ear as she juts her chin toward a bench against the wall.

He nods and plops down beside her, extending the bag of candied nuts they got from the gift shop to her. She smiles tightly and takes one, popping it into her mouth as she listens to the ME.

"Is she okay?" Kate asks, and he snaps back to her, pulling his attention away from the little boy tapping on the tank across from them, trying to get a shark to swim his way.

"Who?" he whispers, frowning when she pats his leg.

"Can you give her to me?"

"Alexis?" he insists, shifting closer to try to hear the phone.

"Thanks, Lanie. Talk soon?" Kate says, trying to shove him away. He shakes his head—won't move for this one. If his kid's in trouble or something, he needs to know, confidentiality or girl code be damned. "Alexis?" Kate says softly.

He hears the quiet sniffle across the line. "Hi," his daughter mumbles.

Bless his girlfriend; she turned up the volume. But her hand comes up to his mouth to stall any words. Right, Alexis didn't call him. She didn't call Kate either, but Lanie did. She needs Kate, not him.

"What's the matter?" Kate asks, her voice gentle and comforting and damn, he just wants to get her pregnant—wants to hear her like this all the time. No, first the big one, then the littler ones.

"Nothing," Alexis sighs. "Nothing just—sad body, a mom, and I just," she peters off and sniffles, tearing at his heart.

Kate's hand finds his and squeezes, rubbing her thumb along the back of his palm. "Just hit you, huh?"

Alexis sobs out a laugh. "Yeah. And Lanie's been so great about me missing a few days, you know? And now I'm here, crying in the closet and I feel so stupid."

"Not stupid," they say together.

Kate takes her hand back to slap his chest while he clenches his mouth shut. She glares at him but they hear Alexis laughing.

"Hi, Dad," Alexis says, and he hears her coming back a little—sounding a little more like his happy little girl. "Where are you guys?"

"The aquarium," Kate offers, letting her hand fall back to his thigh as she lightly shakes her head. "Watching sharks, actually."

"Jumping any?" Alexis asks.

Kate laughs as he coughs, smiling as his daughter laughs on the other end of the line. "No," he offers. "Well, maybe. Thinkin' about it."

"Castle!" Kate exclaims, whacking him again. "No, we're not, Alexis."

"Might be nice," his daughter says softly. "Life is good."

They both go still. His kid can't possibly be giving her permission for—no. Not possible. Kate slowly relaxes beside him, and he catches her smiling that pressed-lip smile, pleased. She's pleased. Oh, God, they said not this month, not right now. But Alexis wants, and he wishes, and they're here, and he really doesn't have a ring?

"Promise me something, Alexis," Kate requests, and he's suddenly wary of the half grief-stricken, half mischievous spark in her eye. How she can even project those two emotions baffles him.

"Sure," his daughter says quietly.

"Don't go chasing life, okay?"

He coughs again while Alexis sucks in a breath and expels a laugh. "No, no, I promise."

"Kate," he rasps, bent over, socked in the gut.

"Sorry, stud," she chuckles, rubbing his back. Yeah, stud's not going to cut it.

"Besides," Alexis adds, louder, for his benefit, he's sure. "My boyfriend is in Ottawa."

"Not cool," he manages as Kate's fingers trip up and down his spine.

"I know," Kate says, bending down to press a swift kiss to his cheek before bringing him back up with her. "But it's…easy to fall into that." He stares at her, suddenly unsure of whether it's the past or the present she's discussing. "You can get caught up in chasing and before you know it, you're," she breaks of and glances at him.

He gives her a slow nod, unsure of exactly what he's agreeing to, but uneager to censor her with his kid.

"Before you know it, you're on the bathroom floor with a pregnancy test and a lot of drunken memories."

His arm is around her without a second thought, his lips pressing into her hair, devastated for a younger version of this strong, solid woman. Someone to shelter her from the rain—someone to sit on that bathroom floor with her—someone to stand with her; how he wishes it had been him, ready or not.

"Oh," Alexis murmurs. "No, I—I promise," she says. "I'm…sorry?"

Kate smiles, and pushes her head against his, the phone caught between them. "No, I needed it—the living and the crash that woke me up. But I don't want that to be you and Graham."

"It won't be," Alexis asserts. There's a pause in which all of them breathe and he follows a huge shark with his eyes as it winds passively through a school of colorful blue and yellow fish. "Dad, you still there?"

"Yep," he says, going for nonchalant. "Watching the fish."

"Freaking out," Kate adds, squeezing his thigh even as he glares at her. "Not nearly ready to be a grandpa."

He groans and Alexis laughs. She's cheering his daughter up, albeit at his expense. Makes it hard to be pissy about the way she's doing it. Irritating, amazing woman.

"Can we, uh, focus on something else?" he asks, overdoing it to hear Alexis laugh again; he doesn't have to overdo much.

Kate pats his leg and bumps his shoulder as Alexis giggles quietly. "Sorry, Dad," she says, a little breathless.

"No, no," he sighs. "I'll survive. So, you're at the Precinct?" he asks before he stops to think about it.

"Never really told you I was still working here did I?" Alexis mumbles as Kate shakes her head at the pair of them, pressing her iPhone into his cheek.

"No, but that's…okay," he says, trying to make it sound like it's not a big deal at all. It shouldn't be, but he wishes—wishes for too many things today.

"Sorry," she adds, quieter. "I kept meaning to. It's good, being busy, and I might be able to get credit for it next semester."

"That's wonderful," Kate interjects, nudging him.

"That's great, pumpkin," he says, and he means it, he does. He just—"Lanie's not letting you cut people up, is she?"

Alexis laughs loudly and Kate lets out a quiet chuckle. Okay, so maybe it's not so bad. Maybe it's great. Maybe it'll make them all stronger. "No," Alexis says after a moment. "No, not 'till next semester."

He lets his head fall back to hit the wall behind them as his girls laugh at him.

"Alexis," Kate says around giggles. "You sure you're okay?"

He sits back up in time to hear, "Yeah, I am. I—thanks."

"Anytime," Kate promises. "Let Lanie get you lunch, okay?"

"I will," Alexis replies. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye, sweetie," he adds.

"Talk to you soon, Alexis. Hang in there," Kate says before they end their call.

They sit for a moment as she pockets her phone, bringing her hand back up to wind behind his back, pulling herself into his side. He rests his head against hers, letting his eyes follow the fish and the children in front of them, not really seeing any of it—too much, too little.

"You want to jump the shark?" she asks and he bumps his head against the wall. "Sorry." she tacks on, completely unapologetic and impish.

"Yes," he grunts, sliding his gaze to hers just to watch her face go slack. She glares a second later and he laughs, pulling her closer. "Yes, but no," he clarifies. "Might be trying to chase life a little."

She smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek, lingering against him. "It's different now," she says softly.

"Yeah?" he wonders, turning a little so he can look at her, made of soft lines and the shimmering light blues that fall over them, reflecting out of the floor-to-ceiling tank across the hall.

"I think, at our age, you're kind of supposed to chase, you know?"

He stares at her, unsure, and she simply smiles, reaching up to run her fingers along his temple, surrounding him in a bubble where nothing exists but the woman before him. "I—" he starts before he closes his mouth and takes a breath. "Are you saying what I—Kate?"

She simply smiles and leans forward to press her lips to his, soft and tender before she pulls back, eyes full. "No, not—yes? I don't know, Castle."

He blinks sluggishly, trying to keep up, trying to wrap his head around it. Even sideways he can't quite make it fit. "Kind of skipping some steps, isn't it?" he offers when he can think of nothing else. "You're not," he adds. "Right?"

"No," she says softly, almost sadly, almost—but no. "Pill, remember?"

"Did you think you were?" he whispers, because he's seen that look before. She's crestfallen. That's it. That's what he's been searching for all day. Crestfallen. Shit.

"Just—no. I couldn't be, but I," she breaks off and clicks her tongue. "I usually start in the morning," she begins, grimacing slightly as his eyes widen in comprehension. "And I…didn't today."

"Wait," he says quickly. "You're serious?" His heart picks up and he can feel his eyes growing wide until her hand moves to his chest, patting over his breast pocket.

"I got it a few hours ago," she says firmly. "Calm down."

"Not—not sure where I was going," he admits. He doesn't know if it was excitement or terror there with his racing pulse.

She nods in understanding. "I just thought—stupidly, I thought maybe we'd hit that point-one percent. But, no," she finishes with a shrug.

"Oh," he lets out. "I had no idea," he adds, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers, in apology, in regret, in something.

"I didn't want to," she whispers, giving him one last peck before they break apart, "get your hopes up."

"Were yours?" he asks before he can stop himself.

She bites at her lip, her hands soft on his cheeks. "Yes. No. It was just a couple of hours—hardly enough, you know?"

He nods against her forehead, watching as she blinks slowly, her breath warm against his lips and nose. "Promise me something," he says, struck suddenly with the image of Kate walking back to him earlier, pensive and quiet—of the Ibis and the rain.

"What?"

"Let me sit on the floor with you next time."


	24. Chapter 24

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: LAST DAY OF CLASSES!**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 24:<strong>

"You have no right to be this good at this," she moans into her pillow, fingers curling and uncurling against the blue sheets.

He grins and works his way across her sacrum, kneading into her tight muscles. "Too hard?"

She shakes her head and groans again, her body falling slack beneath his fingers. "I love you," she sighs.

He laughs and bends forward, stalling his hands to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. She turns her head and smiles wearily at him. He moves to straighten up and continue her massage but she brings her hand back to keep him pressed against her.

He shifts so he can bear some of his weight on his forearms as he bends to feather his lips over her temple, her cheek, smiling as she searches for his mouth. She's warm and still a little damp from their shower, washing away their long day at the museum and watching the sunset over the bay on the beach.

"Better than Midol," she hums as she bends her elbow to curl her fingers around his.

He chuckles and drops his head to lean his forehead against her cheek, his chin brushing the curve of her shoulder. "Every man's dream occupation."

"Do I want to know why you're so good at that?" she mumbles, squinting at him as he slides to her side, letting the bed take his weight even as he leaves half of his body draped over hers.

"I've been married twice," he offers easily. "And as my marketable skills didn't seem to earn many points—"

"You mean your unending ability to pester, badger, annoy, and exhibit the exuberance of a nine-year-old?" she interjects, though the words come more slowly than he's sure she wants them to.

"Those," he agrees grudgingly, knowing there's no malice and little reality in it from her. "And my penchant for putting Alexis above the wives, for working late, for uh, constant questions—reasons. There were reasons."

She snorts softly and shifts to press her lips to his cheek. "Those ones I like," she mumbles.

He smiles and brushes his hand through her damp hair. "Since they weren't as endearing to the previous two women, I, uh, took great pains to be good at other things, and, well, you certainly look relaxed."

"I'd forgive a lot right now," she hums out, smiling as he laughs. "But don't take that as an invitation."

"Noted," he whispers. "You good? I'm sure the Jacuzzi could do a better job."

"No," she says, cuddling closer. "I'm comfy. You need to write?"

He sighs and sags into the bed. "I probably should," he says reluctantly. But he's comfortable here, with his girlfriend soft and cuddly beneath him, fighting to stay awake.

He had no idea she was getting toward her time of the month—counts himself lucky that she doesn't do the PMS thing, or the pills stop it, or something. Gina went crazy every month, and Meredith wouldn't let him near her. But Kate—Kate doesn't seem to care. She wants him there. He doesn't want to give that up.

"Bring the laptop to bed," she sighs, opening her eyes slowly to look at him. "Sorry I'm so logy."

"No apology necessary," he tells her, leaning forward to snag her lips in a sleepy kiss. "Kinda like you like this."

She swats at him as he hoists himself off the bed. He chuckles and watches with amusement as she curls into his abandoned space on the bed. He grabs the laptop from the coffee table, leaving the cord behind. He turns back to the bed and laughs; she's taken his pillow.

He climbs into bed on her side, shifting her pillows up to support his back. She turns over to face him, blinking sluggishly up at him as he reaches down to pull the comforter up over her body and his legs. Her fingers reach out to smooth over his thigh below the covers, jostling the laptop.

"Hey now," he chides, laughing.

She smirks tiredly. "Sorry," she mumbles stilling her hand so it rests just above his kneecap, a warm, steady weight. "Should have timed this better."

He shakes his head and curls his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head as she shifts to snuggle up beside him. "No worries."

"Last days are for wild sex," she sighs, wrinkling her nose. "Crappy timing."

"I'm still up for the wild sex," he says immediately, grinning as she lets out a startled laugh. "So if that's your issue, it's a non-issue."

She smiles and blushes, pushing her face into his pillow. "Good to know," she murmurs. "We get some Midol and we'll see," she adds, looking up at him with one eye, obviously going for sexy. But she's rumpled and soft and adorable too, and he's more enchanted by that than the promise of possible sex, wonderful as it may be.

"Either way," he offers, pulling up his latest chapter. It hasn't been working. Jamie and Nikki are in a good place. The case is coming together. But it's hit a lull. They're waiting, hiding out near Notre Dame, and he's at a loss for a good conversation.

"Anyone who gave you up is an idiot," Kate whispers, fading beside him, sleepy and unguarded. And oh, it makes his heart swell.

He lifts the laptop so he can bend to press his lips to her forehead, needs to make contact, to show her how much it means—how much he absolutely, unendingly, unerringly loves her.

"Glad they did," he whispers against her skin, even as his back protests and his right arm reminds him that he hasn't lifted weights in nearly four weeks. "Got me you."

She gives him a shadow of a smile and he pulls back to watch her fall into sleep. And suddenly, he knows what Nikki and Rook talk about, what they need to do—the subtext he needs to find for them: Relationships, the past—the things he and Kate should have talked about years ago, the things Rook and Nikki can do better than they did. They're dysfunctional in their own way, but he likes to exorcize his demons, their demons, through their alter egos.

A good conversation about numbers and proposals never did go awry anyway. As he uses their words from last year, whispers of, "Are you really asking for my number?" flying onto the page, he wonders idly if Kate will kill him for this.

She shifts in her sleep, snuffling before she presses closer, her fingers brushing the back of his laptop through the sheets, her breath falling hot against his hip where she's shuffled as close as possible. He's a little too warm, a little too confined now, but he can't be bothered to care. She'll definitely kill him for this, but what a way to go.

(…)

He finds her on the balcony the next morning, watching the city wake up as the sun crests over the buildings. Too early to be awake, really.

"Hey," she says, surprised to find him leaning against the sliding glass doors. "Why are you up?"

He just gives her a look. She must know by now that if she's not there, he knows, even in sleep. She shakes her head but smiles softly at him. He can practically hear her, "You ridiculous man," as she beckons him forward. But she's pleased. He can see that too.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks as he lets her pull him down onto the small loveseat she's shoved up to the railing.

She sighs and settles back between his legs, allowing him to tug her close, using her to brace himself against the early-morning chill. He hopes they'll go back to sleep after this. The fog hasn't even fully lifted yet.

"Couldn't stay asleep," she mumbles. "Thought I'd come look at the city. Last day and all."

Soft and pliant and quiet, he watches her—the way her eyes comb the cityscape, the glide of her fingers over his, the soft sigh that escapes her lips. "You sad?"

She shrugs. "I—no? I don't know," she mumbles. "I think I'm a little too used to good hotels and great food," she admits.

He chuckles and watches as her mouth twitches upward. So they're talking around it. He can go with that, can plow in around the curves. "Well, it's no five-star hotel, but I've been told that the amenities at my place are pretty good."

"Not knocking your ridiculous bed or enormous bathtub," she says, leaning back to glance up at him. "Just—"

"Not quite ready to give this up," he supplies, smiling as she nods. "We're still set to drive down into Washington, right? Or do you think you'd rather fly home tomorrow?"

She shrugs. "I still have six days of leave left. I mean," she pauses and blows out a slow breath. "Well, if that's all I've got."

"You think he'll make you take more?" he asks gently, mesmerized by the play of her fingers that stroke along his left ring finger, like she's not even aware she's doing it.

"I don't know," she admits. "Haven't had an episode in days, but you know that doesn't mean," she breaks off.

"Right," he agrees. "And do you think you—do you want more time?" he settles on, sounding a little timid, a little sheepish. He doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to push or prod, but they are sneaking up on the deadline now.

"Do you?" she asks, shifting again to look up at him, her head resting on his shoulder.

"I'll probably need a week or two at some point to edit and stuff," he hedges. "But I can also just bank on slow days, you know?"

"Not time for the book," she corrects, giving him a look. So she doesn't want him to beat around the bush now? Keeping up with this woman is exhausting; or maybe it's the meager four hours of sleep he managed to get before her absence woke him up.

"I'm probably more likely to dive on you than freeze up," he says honestly. "So if that's going to be a problem—" She slaps him and he laughs, bending his neck to kiss her cheek. "I'm kinda serious," he adds, watching as she sighs and nods at him.

"I'll freeze, so it's probably not a bad thing right now," she says softly. "But, well, no—no, I'm not."

"Not ready," he says slowly.

"Not ready," she whispers, closing her eyes as he squeezes her closer.

She's admitting it. She's not ready. If she's in a place where she can say that, can honestly tell him she's not ready, then she's not, and they've hit a wall. "That's okay," he says. It is. The logistics are stickier, but there's nothing wrong with wanting more—needing more time.

"Okay with you," she insists. "Not okay with me."

He sighs. "Don't add that to the pile, Kate," he says gently.

"Oh shut up," she grumbles even as she begrudgingly nods. "I get that enough from Burke."

"Never hurts to hear it again," he insists, even as she pinches the back of his hand. "Hey!"

"You're supportive," she says, patting his hand in some kind of muted apology. "I get it. But you don't have to support my subconscious. It'll get there."

He sighs and she smiles slightly, turning her head to press a kiss to the base of his jaw. "Fine."

She laughs softly and returns to tracing patters over his finger. "What do I do with the time, then?" she poses, relaxing into his arms, crumpling, maybe.

"You'd hate a desk job, right?" he asks after a moment of thought.

"Not as much as you'd hate it," she offers. "Not a lot for Nikki to do behind a desk."

He tuts and nudges her thigh with his. "I'm creative enough to make even that interesting."

"Conceited enough," she tosses back with a small smile.

He laughs. "Creative enough," he insists. "But I don't really care. I'll still come visit, come sit. Might even get some of the book done."

She sighs at the thought; apparently she's not keen on that idea either. He thinks it might be kind of fun, but only because he could bother her all day, and she could reciprocate. But it wouldn't last long. They'd probably get sick of each other pretty quick that way.

"No desk job, if I can help it," she decides after another few minutes of watching the fog lift and following her fingers with his eyes.

"Paula emailed me last night," he says as the thought resurfaces. "Maybe you could take a more involved role in the benefit? Kill some time?"

She snorts and he bites at his own lip. "Smooth, Castle," she says, laughing. "But yeah, I could lose some time to that."

"Give you a taste of what a life as a socialite could be like—no job, just charity and functions," he suggests, grinning as she grimaces.

"I would kill you in two months. Can you imagine?"

He chuckles, but still… "You're super organized, you have tons of connections, and you have an enormous heart," he says softly. "You'd probably be great at charity work, actually."

"I'm sure I'd like to—probably will want to do some," she says slowly. "But not as a full time occupation."

His heart stutters in his chest as her fingers thread through his. She wants to do charity work—wants to do some of the benefits, some of the philanthropy. As his wife. She wants to do that as his wife. Holy—but he needs to snap out of it or he'll freak her out.

"Well, no. You'd be rearing the children the rest of the time," he lets out before he can stop himself. Yeah, good job keeping it light, dumbass.

But she laughs, loudly, shaking in his arms. "Yeah right, Mr. Mom," she retorts. "Let you write all day while I entertain the children? Fat chance."

"Hey, writing is a full time occupation," he protests, grinning as he does. "I need silence."

"You need time to procrastinate," she fires back. "So you take care of them."

"You don't want to take care of your own children? Katherine Beckett, I'm appalled," he says, hamming it up.

"I just think you'll be better at keeping them entertained all day long. I'm not nearly as creative," she says quickly, but suddenly they're not kidding anymore.

"Hey, you're plenty creative," he argues, his voice softer, serious; they're seriously talking about kids, again.

"You raised Alexis," she says after a moment. "I want my kids to have that—whatever you did, all the games and stuff. They should get that too."

He leans down to kiss her, because he can't find the right words. So he pushes them into her mouth, lets them trip from his tongue to hers, from his skin to hers where he holds her close, from his breath to hers as they pant against each other's mouths.

"We've really got to stop talking about this, or I'm throwing your pills out," he manages when she's turned around so she's straddling him, looking down into his eyes.

"By the time I'd be ready to go back to active duty, I'd have to stop anyway," she mumbles as she skates her lips over the little scar above his left eye.

"Doesn't—" he tries, taking a second to pull air back into his constricted lungs. "Doesn't sound much like a protest, Kate."

"Yeah, well," she sighs, sinking down to sit in his lap, her hands settled against his cheeks. "I'm starting to have more health related reasons than emotional ones," she admits.

He gapes for a moment, laughing with her as she pushes his mouth shut, both of them breathless. "Like?" he asks softly.

"Like still having PTSD, and being underweight," she offers. "And I don't know, Castle. We get pregnant, then what? We get married, and two years from now I'm still at home, and then instead of PTSD it's not wanting to get hurt that keeps me away?"

He smiles and she frowns at him, leaning closer, eyebrows raised. "Sorry," he says—knows this isn't the moment for smiles, for amazement. "But you're saying you'll still be there in two years."

She cocks her head. "Kind of thought talking about kids assumes I'll be there in two years," she says slowly, and he hears the edge to her voice, half panic, half indignation.

"I know," he says quickly. "I know. I just—" he breaks off and sighs. "Look, I love my daughter, but by two, Meredith was already checking out. And I know," he rushes, gripping at her waist to stall her words. "I know you'll be there. I do. I just, God, every time it sends this—you're gonna stick around, gonna stay with me, and I'm just…happy," he rushes out, embarrassed and kind of ashamed, and confused as to why she's tearing up. Shit. No, making her cry was so not part of losing his cool.

She blinks at him and pulls in a shaking breath before her face flips from trembling to exultant, the brightest smile breaking across her mouth. She bends to press her lips to his, hot and heavy and full of promise—like he's given her something. He doesn't know what, but he'll take it. He wants her, all of her, all of her forevers.

"Glad you figured that out," she whispers. "Not getting rid of me."

"Marry me," he rasps.

They go still, staring, gaping at each other.

Her fingers dig into his cheeks while his clutch at her waist. "I," she begins, shocked and something else, something—something he can't define. But that's a tear; he knows that one.

He reaches up to wipe her cheek, sliding his hand to cup her jaw, smiling timidly as she lets her head go heavy against his palm. "Didn't mean—"

"We said—"

They laugh breathlessly at each other and she leans down to rest her forehead against his. "We said not this month," she whispers.

"Sorry," he murmurs back, shrugging playfully. He didn't mean to. He really didn't. But it's there—but it shouldn't be.

"You need an answer, or should we rain check this and get more sleep?" she asks after a long minute of breathing and clutching and watching.

He wants to say answer. He wants to say now. He wants to throw the pills away and forget about the trauma and start a future, start their next chapter instead of staying here in the epilogue of the first book of their life.

"Let's sleep," he says, pushing through all the things that scream to be let out—pushing forward so they get to have them.

He watches as she blinks once and smiles when he realizes she's shuttering it away too. He's not alone. She wants it too. But they both want to do it right, on solid ground, when they know the future and can handle the past.

She climbs off of him and extends her hands, tugging him up so they're chest to chest. He hauls her in for a hug before either can blink, and she burrows her face into his neck, her mouth open against his pulse.

"I love you," he says, trying to channel it all into those three words. They hardly seem enough.

"Marry me," she returns.

He laughs, startled, and feels her grinning against his throat. "This means war," he informs her.

"Bring it," she mumbles, pulling away to smile at him, her eyes still full, but also alight, in love with him. "But not now? Bring me to bed; I'm tired."

"You were the one who got up first," he argues, taking her hands to lead them back inside, back to the big bed with the amazing pillows.

"Yeah, well," she offers, laughing when he lets out a loud, "Ha!"

She shakes her head and climbs under the comforter, pulling him with her until they're cuddled up in the middle of the bed, her head pillowed on his chest. Her fingers feather over his stomach, swirling around his belly button.

"Gonna be hard to top this for the honeymoon," he says quietly after a few minutes have passed.

She groans and nips at the crook of his shoulder. "I said bed first," she mumbles.

He chuckles and bends to kiss her forehead as she wraps her knee over his hip. "Sorry, babe."

"Besides," she adds, lifting up to meet his eyes. "F'it's a shotgun wedding, we're just gonna get a nice suite at the Plaza or something. No flying."

"You said bed!" he yelps as she grins.

"Sorry, babe."


	25. Chapter 25

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Well, this is officially AU. Though, I contend that I would have probably done the same if I'd started this post-finale. Similar, at least.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 25:<strong>

"I'm not doing that."

"Oh, come on," he whispers, crowding into her, skating his lips up her neck as she laughs and shoves at his arms. "It's not—it's different first class."

"Castle, the bathroom in first class is just as small as the one in coach, and if you're serious right now, I'm taking the Nyquil in my bag and sleeping the whole way home."

He lets his head fall to her shoulder, groaning as she pats his forearms, shuffling forward even with him clinging to her back. "But Kate," he whines as she fishes in her shoulder bag, which is digging into his solar plexus.

"No," she says sternly, passing over their tickets to the amused looking attendant at the gate. "Now come on. You can buy me going home champagne."

"And cop a feel?"

"Castle!"

He laughs, releasing her to move to her side and snag her hand in his. "Sorry, sorry. Just trying to keep it light."

She shakes her head but threads their fingers together, tugging him down the hall and up the gentle incline toward the plane. "Well," she looks over, lips curving deviously. "I'm sorry the alarm went off late. I would have—last morning and all."

"Beck—ett," he exclaims, chasing after her as she scurries away and up toward the door.

He catches her just as she's showing their tickets to a prim flight attendant. He nearly topples her over, and the glare she shoots him as they follow the woman through the side entrance and through first class to their seats is less amused and more actually annoyed with him. But really, that one wasn't his fault. Crappy balance and sticky floors—not in his control at all.

Still, she lets him have the window seat in their little section—private and huge and luxurious. It's seriously the only way to fly. He watches as she settles down next to him, squishing into the soft leather seat, her bag safely tucked beneath her, hands fidgeting in her lap.

She looks relaxed, a little tan, a little free. Her hair rests over one shoulder in that adorable braid she never wears enough, and he smiles as she gently dislodges her sunglasses and stows them in their armrest. She'd been oddly fascinated by that little amenity the last time they'd flown together, over a year ago.

But this time, he can reach out and still her fidgeting hands, can lean over before they turn on the seat belt light, can brush his lips to her cheek. She sags into him, squeezing his hand, and he wonders at the emotions on her face.

"You okay?" he asks, pulling back to look at her.

She goes to say something back, sharp and fast, but deflates instead, shaking her head—that little movement of dismissal, as if whatever she's feeling can't matter much. "I'm good," she says.

"I'm sad," he offers, smiling as she snaps her gaze to his. "What? Giving this up, just us? Sad. Wistful. A little pent up," he throws in, waggling his eyebrows to get her to laugh. "You?"

"Same," she breathes out, reaching up with her free hand to cup his cheek, running her thumb beneath his eye. "But it's not—not much will change back in New York," she tells him firmly. He figures it's as much for his benefit as hers.

"Right," he agrees, as much for her benefit as his. He wants this to stay the same, wants her with him every night, wants her in his space, in his home, all over—plastered all over him and his life and his everything.

"Alexis said she wanted to have dinner," she says softly. "You think you'll be up for that?"

"Did she text you?" he wonders, nodding in answer as he fishes in his pocket for his phone. Damn, he missed the text.

"Yeah. So a yes on dinner?"

"Definitely, if you're good with it," he tacks on, giving her an out. He can wait a night to see his kid, but if Alexis needs him—

"Of course," she says instantly. "I love your kid."

He groans and bends to press his lips to hers, a little rough, still a little pent up. Damn alarm. "Love you," he tells her mouth, smiling as she laughs against his lips.

She pushes him away a moment later to send a last text to his daughter just as the seatbelt lights flicker and the PA turns on, blasting out announcements. They buckle in and try to relax through the safety instructions and destination explanation—the weather, the five-and-a-half hour trip.

Finally, the engines start and they begin to taxi, the plane humming all around them. Rain drips down the window as he watches the Seattle-Tacoma airport slowly glide out of view. Their last few days were wonderful, filled with rain and gorgeous sun, and so much laughter, so much teasing.

All that's left is to return to New York, to stop running and come to a full halt back into their real lives. Sad—he's sad, he's terrified, he's flying.

Her fingers clench around his and he turns to look at her, catching her brilliant smile. "I love flying," she murmurs, turning sparkling eyes on him. "It's just—I mean, so many tons of metal, up in the air. Amazing."

He nods, can't seem to unglue his mouth to respond, breathless for her joy.

"It just makes your stomach fall out," she adds, tense in her seat as they continue to rise. She taps a finger against his palm and gestures for them both to watch out the window as the country sinks below them, stretching out into fields and mountains, falling away. "Makes me feel small," she says softly.

"Yeah," he agrees, finding only that syllable to agree. "Wow," he continues, watching, entranced by it suddenly, this physical goodbye to their trip.

They watch in silence until they break the clouds and everything is grey and white below them. The shapes, the jutting arcs of white are as enchanting as the scenery they cover, but he finds himself watching Kate instead as she settles in, adjusting her seat belt, moving their joined hands like she's just got her own to contend with.

Finally, they level off, gliding along too fast to comprehend, zooming across the country. "What'd you bring to do?" he asks as he slips his iPad out of his carry on, regretfully letting her hand go to situate the thing on his lap.

"Book," she replies, pulling _Flowers For Your Grave_ out of her bag with a smirk. He grins at her, and his smile widens as she sees the iPad. "Wait, are you writing?"

"I'd rather do it on the laptop, but I don't like bringing it in case something happens," he explains with a shrug. There was an incident early on with a larger seat companion, a mini-bottle of champagne and half a draft's worth of novel gone. He's not about to make that mistake twice.

"You got enough battery to watch a movie once the light goes off?" she asks, the book forgotten in her lap.

He nods and smiles as the seatbelt light goes dark a moment later. "Get over here," he murmurs, watching as she unbuckles and lifts their armrest to scoot into his side, her body stretched over seats as it crowds into his. "What do you want to watch?" he asks, glancing up to realize that they have their own screens with a huge selection of movies on the plane as well.

She taps the iPad and snuggles into him with a sly smile. "You have _Pride and Prejudice_ on here, right?" she asks as she grabs the headphones and splitter from his bag, bending half in his lap so her face is just shy of getting him to the mile-high club.

The smirk on her lips tells him she knows exactly what she's doing. "Alexis put it on here, yes," he manages, frowning as she straightens up. A flight attendant walks by a moment later and Kate grins.

"Forget it, Castle," she says, patting his cheek as she plugs in the splitter.

"Someday," he growls, running his thumb down along the trail from her ear to her clavicle, watching as she swallows thickly.

"Save it for the honeymoon, champ," she mutters, scrolling through the movies as he rests the iPad on his thigh.

"If we don't, you'll never hear the end of it," he tells her, pointing as he spots their movie for the trip.

"Charter a plane," she fires back, plugging in her headphones one-handed as she skates the other up his chest to pat his heart.

"Done," he decides, slipping his own earbuds into his ear. "Tomorrow?"

She laughs, the sound muted by the soft piano that starts the film. "Watch the movie," she instructs, leaning her head onto his shoulder, warm and heavy with promise and future and the scent of her conditioner.

They stay there, plastered together, comfortable, for the better part of the film. She sighs quietly against his shoulder as Darcy confesses his love for Elizabeth in the pouring rain. His lips find her temple and Castle breathes against her skin, letting vestiges of the last year flow out of him, out of her—exorcizing the demons of 'forgotten' I love yous and hidden murder boards.

Just as Elizabeth is studying the bust of Mr. Darcy, the plane bucks around them. Kate startles on his shoulder, her hand clenching into his shirt. The seatbelt light goes on and he groans, letting her go as she scrambles up to buckle in. He pauses the movie as the PA comes on.

"We're entering a pretty heavy rain system and expect moderate turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated until further notice."

Kate sighs, her hands tight on the armrests as he tries to figure out where to put the iPad so they can keep watching. But as he returns his gaze to his girlfriend, he decides that _Pride and Prejudice_ just won't be distracting enough. She's gone pale, her hands in fists on the armrests as the plane jiggles, her lips clamped together, pursed and turning white.

"Hey," he says softly, reaching out to tug her earbuds from her ears so he can stow the iPad away. "Just turbulence."

She nods, but he can see that it doesn't make much of a difference. The cabin shakes again and she turns to look at him with wide, panicked eyes. "I like flying, but I can't—we took a whole trip when I was a kid and it was like this. I don't even remember where we went."

"Oh," he sighs, reaching out to take her hand. "We're gonna be fine," he says softly.

"I know," she growls. "Not a child, Castle."

He bobs his head, biting his cheek to keep from firing back. She's scared and touchy; now is not the time to defend himself. Someone's bag falls to the floor a few seats away when the plane shifts, and Kate stiffens. He's learning today; PTSD and bad turbulence don't mix.

She shakes as they hit another bump and he notes the light green tinge to her jaw, the way she's breathing so slowly, trying so hard. He can't just vault over and hold her, protect her with his body, or comfort her with his mouth. But he—yes, he packed Dramamine, got some at the duty free store where she picked up her Nyquil, just in case. Somehow, he doesn't think she'll let herself take the Nyquil and knock herself out.

"Kate," he says gently, reaching into his bag for the bottle. "Here, this should help."

She lets him pry her hand from the armrest to hand her the pill. "What is it?" she manages, her jaw tight.

"Dramamine. Should help the nausea."

"God, marry me," she sighs, grabbing the pill from him as he extends the bottle of water from their center console.

He chuckles as he watches her toss the pill back and take a sip with shaking fingers. He just wants to reach over and yank her into him, wants to soothe her and make his own heart calm down, because man, it's bad. They're really rocking and it's starting to get to him too.

But he focuses on Kate, on the slow way she relaxes as the drugs hit her system. It's a little too fast—a little psychosomatic, placebo effect—but he'll take it. And apparently, so will she.

She groans as they hit another bump, but he can tell this one is from thinly veiled fear, and not motion sickness. "Thanks," she sighs, turning to look at him as she curls her hand back into his.

"Anytime," he says with a tight smile, gripping into his thigh with his free hand, trying to—what, trying to hide his own discomfort? "This sucks," he admits.

She hums her consent and strokes her fingers across his open palm. "We taking a taxi back?" she asks, trying to distract them both now that she can think over her stomach.

"Was planning on it. But I could probably order a car through the plane's WiFi" he offers. "It's gonna be stop and start either way," he adds, catching on to her desire to just have a smooth trip back. "We could take the shuttle train."

"You like trains," she sighs. He chuckles, smiling as the corner of her mouth slips up.

"You falling asleep?" he prompts when her head lolls to the side.

"Your drugs are making me sleepy," she mumbles.

"Good," he says softly. "Sleep and I'll order a car."

"Don't wanna leave you alone," she whispers as the plane jolts again. Her eyes pop open as his chest clenches. "On second thought, no sleeping."

"Okay," he groans, pushing his head back into his own seat.

"Take Dramamine," she urges, passing him back the bottle of water.

"I'll pass out," he argues, taking a sip, letting it wet his throat and cool his roiling stomach.

"I haven't," she protests, even as her eyelids flutter.

"No, but you have more willpower than I do," he returns. "Took it once with Alexis on a trip to see Meredith. Super bad turbulence, and I fell asleep, got woken up by the attendants because my daughter was crying so hard," he explains. "Not doing that again."

He still feels guilty every time he takes his daughter on a plane, though she barely remembers that day, and loves planes, like Kate. Hell, she even enjoys light turbulence—says it feels like a rollercoaster. Apparently neither he nor Kate feels the same.

Her fingers tangle with his and he feels her free hand come down to encase his palm. He glances over and finds her there, staring at him, her face soft and lovely and oddly calm.

"You're a great dad," she assures him, like she knows he's reliving it—knows he's connected these two moments together. "And if you need to pass out so you don't hurl, please, do," she adds, laughing a little. "Nothing very romantic about that."

He chuckles and brings their hands over the armrest to press his lips to the back of hers, letting their contact calm him down enough to try to control his stomach. "I'm good," he mouths into her skin.

She narrows her eyes but doesn't comment, letting him continue to caress her skin as lightning flashes out the window. "Wow," she breathes. "I always forget about being above the storm."

"Pretty cool," he agrees, taking his eyes off of her for a moment to watch another bolt crack the sky where it's stormy below them. He figures they must still be in the wind belt or something even if they're a bit above the storm.

"Most embarrassing story about being caught in a storm," she whispers, leaning toward him even as the belt restrains her, leaving her there with her cheek on the edge of her headrest, eyes staring at him.

He blows out a breath and gives her a smile, mirroring her so they're only a few inches apart, separated by soft beige leather as their hands twist and stroke between them.

"I took Alexis to Florida once, to go to Disney World," he begins, smiling wider as her eyes grow clearer, as she pushes through the haze of exhaustion to listen with rapt attention. "And we took a day to go to the beach. Gina came with us that time," he says, pausing to make sure it's all right to tell it. Kate just smiles and reaches up to adjust his collar. "So when it started to storm, Alexis went running back up to help her pack up the beach stuff. But I was still in the water, and my trunks didn't feel the need to stay with me after I got rolled by a breaker."

She laughs, startled, and grins at him. "Lemme guess, you were caught in your Birthday suit by paparazzi?"

He nods, laughing with her. "Gina was pissed, for more than one reason, but Alexis thought it was hysterical, and a little gross."

"Why have I never heard about this, or seen it?" she wonders, smirking.

"Gone looking for naked pictures of me, have you?" he teases, running his fingers down her arm.

"No," she says firmly, a little too quickly. "But I would think that would have made the news."

"I think Gina paid them off," he admits.

"Did it ruin the trip?"

He scoffs. "Alexis had a blast. I slept on the couch for a few days, but Alexis had a blast."

Kate frowns. "It's not your fault that your trunks got washed away."

"Thanks," he says, lifting their hands to kiss her pulse. "But don't blame it all on her. I was an ass about it—wouldn't take it as a serious threat to my career. I could have, uh, respected her efforts more."

Kate shakes her head. "If it ever happens again, I'm just gonna laugh. You know that, right?"

He grins, laughing with her. "Good," he says, smiling. "It'll be so much better if you can find it funny."

She nods and then bites her lip. "Speaking of which, um, how much will I probably have to find funny? Ballpark figure."

He pauses and considers her. She's strong, his girl. She could beat the crap out of anyone with a camera faster than a shutter click. But she's also his muse, and if it's a slow fall for celebrity, they'll probably make the paper more than once—a real-life love story to mirror the one in his books. He'd want it if it wasn't his relationship.

"Enough," he hedges. "But most of it will be good stuff, at the beginning at least."

"Good stuff," she repeats, arching an eyebrow.

"You know, romantic stuff. They're going to love the muse-to-lover angle. They're going to make up all sorts of things about the whys and hows. And that will be fun for us."

She nods contemplatively. "It's the pregnancy and marriage and scandal stuff I'm going to hate, right?"

He nods slowly. "Yeah. I can talk to Paula about trying to keep it out of the papers as much as I can, but I mean, you've seen it before. They're going to eat it up."

"And unless we hide, there's no stopping it?"

She doesn't look put out, merely interested, curious. "Right," he says slowly. "I'm not really suggesting we go either way though."

"No grand date to show me off?" she teases, her eyes sparkling, her face so much more relaxed.

"Nah," he says easily, smiling as she grins. "Besides, if we're going for big, I'd rather the coverage go toward publicizing your mom's benefit than our relationship."

"Oh." Her eyes go wide for a moment before he watches a smile blossom over her face. "So we could use this to get people interested?"

Wow, so not where he would have gone in her shoes, but yes. Yes, they can, and they will, and he'll talk to Paula about it first thing tomorrow. "Yes," he says, smiling with her, amazed by her. "We can try to channel it into something good."

"More charities too," she says suddenly. "The family compensation funds at the NYPD are low. Can we," she pauses and looks at him, suddenly shy. "I mean, I don't want to exploit you, us, it," she rushes out. "Jeez."

He laughs and gives up, loosening his belt to surge forward and catch her lips—this woman who wants to forget the negatives and put his annoying fame and public scrutiny to their advantage, to help people.

"Yes. Anything you want. If you're going to be in the papers with me, you can use it to promote research on teleportation for all I care."

She laughs and pushes him back into his seat, even as she smiles with her kiss-ripened lips, sexy and amazing. "The benefit first, and then we'll see," she tells him, her voice light and relaxed and lovely.

"The benefit first," he echoes.

She smiles and closes her eyes for a moment, tangling their hands back together as he watches the seatbelt light go off. They've stopped bumping, and the clouds below them seem to be lightening. He didn't even notice.

"Hey," he says softly, lifting the armrest as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

She opens her eyes and blinks as he scoots up to her, resting his forehead against hers even as he raises a leg to the seat to manage it.

"Hi," she whispers, leaning forward to press her lips to his. "Almost home?"

He turns to look a the trip log at the front of their section. "Looks like two hours if the wind keeps up," he says, turning back to her. "We'll have a few hours before we meet up with Alexis," he adds.

"Great," she says happily. "I wanna unpack."

"Right," he murmurs. Unpack where? Her place? His place? Is she staying with him tonight? Is he staying with her?

The questions swirl in his head, and suddenly nothing is simple. Everything's changing. Being back means they're not just together. They're not constantly together. What's the plan? How does he even go about asking her?

"Can we stop at my place so I can dump my stuff and grab clean clothes for dinner?" she asks a minute later.

He opens his eyes, surprised to discover he'd closed them at all, and finds her watching him knowingly. "Uh, sure," he says quickly.

"I figure I should have stuff at your place, since Alexis might want to come back to the loft, right?"

"Right," he says dumbly.

"I mean," she falters, watching him for something he's not sure how to give, "I can stay at my place, but…"

"No," he says quickly, finding his voice again. "No, bring your stuff. Don't bother unpacking. Just grab clean stuff for tomorrow and we'll do our stuff later tonight."

"Just—" she breaks off and stares at him. "To what, leave my stuff at your place?"

"Yeah?" he suggests, feeling unsure and brave and cowardly all at once. He should just ask her, just tell her to stay—to move in, or half move in, or something. But they're not doing that yet, are they? "You can have a drawer." She lifts an eyebrow. "Three," he corrects quickly. "And closet space and a shelf in the bathroom?"

"Better," she says after a moment, her face relaxing into a smile. "Do you—

"I didn't think I should—" he pauses and meets her eyes. "You're welcome to stay as long as you want," he decides, giving her the option without setting parameters. They can do this. Hell, they've been talking babies and rings. What's a few drawers, really?

She considers him for a moment, thinking, and then she smiles. It lights up her eyes and melts his heart, calms him down. Because the semantics don't matter, do they?

She squeezes his fingers, left hand to left hand. "I'll bring my bag," she whispers against his ear as he wraps his arms around the parts of her he can reach. "But I'm gonna need four drawers."


	26. Chapter 26

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Still squealing over the Caskett kiss...**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26:<strong>

She's not very good at taking suggestions.

He sits on her bed, watching as she moves around her room, packing a second suitcase while he tries to call out for items of clothing—shirts he's loved, pants that hug her just the right way—ignoring her annoyed glances, which are increasing in frequency.

"Castle," she finally growls when he's pointed to the satin, lacey thing in her closet five times.

"What?" he asks innocently, swinging his legs so they beat against the foot of her bed. "Just trying to be helpful."

She shoots him a look, glaring and still scary even in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. "Yeah, well, if you really want to help, grab my heels," she directs, jutting her head toward the closet. "Touch the teddy and you die."

"Fine," he sighs, skirting around her to reach into her closet, grabbing a few pairs of heels he knows will go with what she's bringing. The teddy's gorgeous, and he's tempted, so sorely tempted to shove it into her bag without her knowledge. But then again, the surprise might be good.

He decides to leave the lingerie in her more than capable hands and returns to the bed, mentally debating whether he prefers her in lace, or just gloriously nude. She raises her eyebrow as he places the shoes on the bed by her suitcase, seemingly both impressed and slightly repulsed that he knows her that well.

"What?" he asks, sidling up to slide his hands onto her hips as she stands in front of her mirror, packing up cosmetics. She's bringing a lot—enough to keep her for at least a week, maybe two, if he's lucky. "Four years," he murmurs into her ear, delighting as her muscles tense beneath his hands. "I know what you like."

She hums and presses back against him for a moment, before shimmying away. Nude—he likes her gloriously nude. She should be naked right now.

"That you do," she says, winking as she bends over to zip up her suitcase, dropping her make-up kit in with her heels before it's closed, done, finished. She's bringing a bag to his place. Two bags, to be exact.

He nods and stalks toward her, trapping her against her suitcase, lifting her up to sit on top of it, fusing his lips to hers to swallow her squeak of surprise.

"Rick," she protests between wet, sloppy kisses. "We have to go h—your place. Alexis," she manages. But the slip just makes him want to throw her down and have his way with her, or let her—yeah, let her have her way with him. They're home in New York, but she wants to go home with him, and he feels the need to celebrate.

"We've got an hour," he mumbles as he leaves her lips to trail down to the underside of her jaw, to that spot that makes her squirm against him, hands tightening in his hair as her thighs squeeze around his.

"Rick," she says, but it's breathy and getting toward the edge of desperate.

"Wanna make up for this morning," he mumbles into her skin, nipping at her before dragging his lips back to hers.

"Tonight," she gasps, releasing one of her hands to clamp it over his as he tries vainly to get the zipper down on her sweater. "Seriously," she adds, gently removing his hand as she squeezes his neck. "We need to get back to your place. Alexis wants to order in, and who knows if Martha's even been there."

He groans and drops his head to her shoulder. "Why are you so practical?" he grumbles, pulling back to meet her eyes, her flushed cheeks and rosy lips doing absolutely nothing to help calm him down.

"One of us has to be," she shrugs with a smile. "Now, come on, help me get my stuff down to the car. We've been up here for too long anyway."

"Ernie understands," he says dejectedly. "Told me he had a book."

"You told your driver you were planning to seduce me?" she exclaims, whacking at his chest. "Castle!"

He laughs and leans forward to pull her into a kiss, even as she keeps thumping his shoulder. "Kidding," he mumbles.

"You suck," she breathes as they pull apart. "Now you get to take the bag."

He grins, letting her go so she can slip back into her flats as he yanks the suitcase off the bed. "God, what did you pack?"

She laughs and grabs her shoulder bag from the chair in the corner. "It's probably all those jeans I just have to have at your place. And the jackets."

"I like you in leather," he says easily. "I'll deal," he adds, lifting the suitcase with no small amount of effort.

She nods decisively and leads him out of her room, hips swinging because she's evil. But she's playful and relaxed, and he'll take the teasing just for that—for the ease of her smile and the way it makes his chest unclench, makes the questions go quiet. They'll have a nice night with his kid, and maybe his mother, and then move on to what he hopes will be rounds and rounds of fantastic sex. The rest of today looks pretty good.

"Ugh," she groans, arching onto the balls of her feet as they stand in the elevator. "Can we eat standing up?"

"I can think of other things we can do standing up," he tells her neck as he leans down to press his lips to the curve of her throat.

"Down, boy," she mumbles, patting his cheek. "And maybe," she adds, laughing as he fist pumps.

(…)

"Castle," she announces, returning from his bedroom holding a picture of her mother and father he definitely did not add to her suitcase when she wasn't looking, along with a number of books that were on her nightstand. Must have been the other boyfriend.

Alexis looks up from her spot teasing him at the counter as he tries to prove that he can indeed make a decent stir-fry. Take-out his butt. Alexis brought all of the makings for dinner, and considers that take-out, since she's not cooking, and she brought the food.

Though, just looking at the bags under her eyes has him willing to do anything for his baby girl. She doesn't look much like a girl though. This thing, Graham, his mother's death, their relationship—it's changed his daughter. She's grown up, mature, a woman. It scares the crap out of him.

Much more than his girlfriend does at least. Kate's just cute. "What?" he asks innocently as Alexis peers at the picture.

"Is that your mom?" she asks quietly.

Kate nods and comes to sit next to his daughter, gently passing her the frame. Alexis takes it with reverence, her long curtain of red hair falling to hide her face as she examines the picture.

"You brought it?" she asks softly.

"Your dad did," Kate supplies. "I was packing a bag, and a number of things suspiciously found their way in there."

"Nothing that was expressly off limits," he tosses out quickly. "Didn't break any rules."

"Uh-huh," Kate replies, giving him a look. He has no idea what this one means, but both of them turn back to Alexis before he can decide. She places the frame on the counter, scraping her hair out of her tired face.

"She's beautiful," Alexis says, smiling wearily. "Your parents looked happy."

"They were," Kate tells his daughter, reaching out to smooth her hand through the girl's—woman's—hair, shockingly intimate and familial and motherly.

He sinks back against the far counter to watch them, blown away by the trust in his daughter's eyes. Alexis smiles at his girlfriend, leaning into her touch as Kate briefly cups her cheek.

"So you packed a bag?" Alexis asks when Kate's hand falls away, both of them turning back to the photo.

"Yeah," Kate says softly. "That," she pauses and looks at Alexis. "That okay?"

Alexis snaps her gaze to Kate, mouth open in shock while he just tries to wrap his head around the picture, around this pair of women across from him. He doesn't think anyone but him has ever asked his daughter if she's okay with something like this.

"Of course," Alexis says slowly. "I mean, even if I didn't want—which I don't—I'm not, I don't live here," she explains, blushing faintly. "But of course you should be here if you want to be. I mean, I'm," she turns and looks over at him. "I'm shocked you don't have boxes here or something."

He coughs and Kate stiffens on the other side of the counter. They stare at each other as Alexis grins.

"Dad, you're burning dinner."

"Crap," he lets out, surging forward.

"How close are we?" Kate asks after a silent minute of watching him toss the vegetables and hold the pan away from the burner to make sure everything doesn't blacken.

"Five minutes?" he replies distractedly. Bless cooking—he can pretend that his daughter did not just interrupt the delicate balance they've had going on.

Kate stands and passes him, squeezing his forearm as she goes for three plates while Alexis joins her to fill cups. He's not sure he can remember the balance. Balance, cowardice, idiocy? She's already said she's in, for the long haul. And he's been in since, well, longer than is truly flattering.

"Dad, I can see smoke coming from your ears," Alexis says breezily. "Try to just fry dinner."

Kate laughs and bumps the girl's hip as they set the counter, opting for casual in place of formal tonight. He glares at both of them but can't quite keep it up, not when Alexis starts asking Kate about bangs and layers, and should she cut her hair. He listens with half of his attention as he finishes off dinner, splitting the pan onto their three plates while the women sit. His mother is—somewhere. But she said she was doing well. He's content with his girls, women. Damn.

"This is wonderful," Kate says as he sits on her other side, leaving her squashed between two Castles. She doesn't seem to mind.

"You sound surprised," he says as he takes a bite, groaning around his own good cooking.

"You haven't cooked for me in almost a month," she argues while Alexis chuckles into her water.

"It's not like pre-calculus," he grumbles. "I remember."

"Yes you do," she says evenly, patting his hand, patronizing him, and he's so happy that he doesn't care. Sick. It's sick.

"When do you go back to work, Kate?" Alexis asks after a few silent minutes of eating and groaning over his rather fabulous meal.

He watches Kate swallow thickly, taking a large sip of water to follow her food as she struggles for words. He'd jump in, but it's not his choice, not his call, and he wants to let her answer—let her tell his kid. It's a step, he thinks, right? Telling people you have a problem, if that's what she's going to do. Something like that, anyway—she should share with the people she's close to.

"I had a mandated month that's up on Monday," she says softly. "But I think I—I'm not quite ready yet, so I'm going to take another week or two."

Her hand finds his, gripping into the meat of his thumb hard enough that he has to bite his lip to stall his protests. But anchor he can be. He'll just look at it as practice for…something he really, really should not be thinking about right now.

"Oh," Alexis says quietly. "That—that makes sense."

"I'm not—I don't know how much your dad has actually told you about the last year," Kate begins. He squeezes her hand as Alexis meets her gaze, startled.

"Some," she hedges. "I wasn't, um—you know I wasn't so happy with him, you guys, uh—"

"I know," Kate says quickly, brushing it aside. "I got that, remember?"

"Yeah," Alexis mumbles. "I'm sorry for, you know, yelling," she adds.

Kate shakes her head with a small smile. "Water so long under the bridge."

"You guys made up before we did," he interjects.

Alexis laughs quietly. "There really isn't such a thing as perfect, is there?"

Kate chuckles and shakes her head. "Sorry, but no."

He goes to protest, but thinks better of it almost instantly. He likes his rose-colored glasses, but they've given him two failed marriages, and even though things with Kate are fantastic, they're not perfect. She has PTSD, and he has something PTSD-like, and they squabble constantly, and he has a feeling that at some point, they'll probably really rip into each other again. Perfect, they are not.

"But that doesn't mean imperfect can't be pretty close," he says, smiling as Kate's hand unfurls to thread her fingers through his. "Keeps it interesting."

"Yeah, interesting," Kate parrots, half teasing, half accepting.

Alexis bobs her head. "You were talking about this year?"

Kate sighs softly and nods. "Yeah. I don't know if Castle ever mentioned that I have—uh, I have," she pauses and takes a deep breath, straightening up in her chair. "I have PTSD."

"Oh," Alexis says quietly. "I—I had no idea."

Kate smiles and briefly touches his daughter's hand where her fingers are twitching, fighting against reaching out herself. Kate has fallen into their family, and they hug, they touch. She's, well, she's amazing, adaptive, and reaching out for his kid, who's so grown up, but still a kid all the same.

"Not something I think I'd have been comfortable talking about," Kate consoles her. "But since the—since we closed my mom's case, it's come back. It was better for a while," she adds. "And it's getting better." She looks to him for confirmation and all he can do is lean forward to press his lips to her temple in affirmation. She's not better, but she's getting there. "But I can't knowingly go out into the field with it like this."

"That's smart, good," Alexis manages. "So, you—desk job, or just, nothing for now?"

"Nothing for now," Kate replies.

He watches as Alexis nods slowly, almost dejectedly. Oh. "But we'll still stop by, pumpkin," he puts in, feeling Kate's fingers tighten around his in understanding.

"How much have you been at the Precinct?" she asks his daughter.

"Four days a week," she mumbles.

"Alexis," he sighs. That's too much with her workload. Way too much. "Honey, why?"

"Graham decided to stay another week at home, and I just—" she breaks off, shrugging. "It's been nice."

Kate nods in understanding. "It's safe," she offers, smiling as Alexis nods. "But are you—Castle's right, that's a huge load."

"Haven't been sleeping much anyway," Alexis admits.

"Oh, kiddo," he says, watching as his daughter just shakes her head, hands twisting on the counter in the bare space where she pushed her plate away.

"I'm okay," she insists. "I'm doing great in classes. As on my midterms."

"Alexis," he gasps, releasing Kate to stand and move to wrap his kid in a bear hug. "Oh, I am so proud of you!" he tells the top of her head before planting a messy kiss to her hair.

She laughs softly as he releases her, eyes a little shiny. "Thanks, Dad."

"Don't thank me!" he scoffs. "This calls for ice cream. Do we have ice cream?" he asks, not directing the question at either of them.

"Pretty sure we finished the last carton before we left," Kate tells him. "And congratulations, Alexis. That's wonderful."

"Thanks," Alexis says quietly, squeezing Kate's hand. "So, you know, I think the internship is good, at least until—when Graham gets back, I'll see."

Kate nods before he has a chance to comment, and the look she shoots him speaks of experience. He sighs. He's not going to win this one. How can he even argue? His kid has As at Columbia and is concurrently holding up four days a week with Lanie. Super kid—she's a super kid, a wunderkind.

"Sounds like a plan," he manages.

Alexis smiles and leans her head onto her hand, watching as he sits back down beside Kate. "Do you have any plans for your time off?" she asks, withholding a yawn.

"Don't know," Kate replies. "We've been starting to plan my mom's benefit dinner, so I'll probably work on that. Your dad needs to keep writing."

"Hey!" he exclaims, nudging her. "I'm two-thirds of the way done, and Gina's perfectly happy."

Alexis laughs and shakes her head as Kate sighs. "Are they still in Paris?" she asks, craning around Kate, who shoots him a surprised look.

"Alexis looks over my outlines sometimes," he explains while Alexis grins. "She's, uh, helped me nix some of my lesser ideas over the years."

"As well as catching all of the theirs that should be they'res," his daughter comments slyly.

"Yes, yes, no spell check is as good as you," he agrees grudgingly.

"Are they though?" Alexis asks, eyes wide. "You didn't decide to—"

"Hey, spoilers," he cuts in, pointing to Kate. "Some people want to be surprised."

"Oh," Alexis says, clearly shocked. "Right. Never mind."

Kate laughs and relaxes in her chair. "No harm done. But save your insight, okay? I may change my mind."

"And you wouldn't come to me?" he gasps, mock-outraged.

"Alexis will be more impartial," Kate shrugs, shooting him a grin as she pats his thigh. Alexis laughs and shakes her head, standing to collect their dishes.

"Honey, you don't need to—" She cuts him off with a look.

"You cooked, I'll clean, and Kate can sit, since she's still a guest here."

He scowls but Kate perks up, sending him a sly smile. "So if I never move in, I'm let out of cleaning duties?"

Alexis spins around and meets his girlfriend's eyes. "Huh, I take it back. Since you're a guest, you're not allowed to clean, but you're also not allowed to, um," she glances to him for help and he grapples with his food-sated mind.

"Not allowed to know Nikki Heat secrets or enjoy the amenities of the, um—" Damn. He can't forbid her the bath, because he likes taking them with her. And she'll want to use the weight room upstairs until she's back at the precinct; she shouldn't bother paying for a gym. He wants her in his bed, and if she's hiding piano skills, he wants to hear them.

No way are they forbidding her from laser tag. Jeez.

"Uh-huh," she says smugly, standing to squeeze his shoulders. "On that note, I'm going to unpack my bags a little." She saunters away, leaving Alexis laughing in her wake as he frowns. What can he use as an incentive now?

"Don't worry, Dad," Alexis says, calling him out of his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"She'll move in. Did you ask?"

He meets his daughter's eyes, so full of trust and tired happiness, for him. He shakes his head. No, of all the questions, he never did ask that one. "We should wait a little," he tells her. "Rushing things, even good things—"

"Just don't wait another four years, okay?" she interrupts with a sigh. "I don't want to have kids before you."

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, coughing fiercely enough to call Kate back from his bedroom, concern on her face. Alexis giggles as his girlfriend walks up to rub his back.

"What happened?"

"I upset his fragile paternal sensibilities," Alexis offers glibly while Kate laughs at him.

"Marriage or babies?" Kate asks, nodding in understanding as her hand strays up to toy with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Babies," Alexis replies, grinning at his girlfriend.

"S'just not funny," he argues, getting his breath back. "Right?" he asks, hoping, just this once, Kate will side with him.

"Of course not," she says, practically cooing at him.

He scowls at her and shakes her off, standing as she laughs. He bumps Alexis out of the way and nods his head toward Kate. "Go help your stepmother unpack," he directs, grinning as he hears Kate splutter.

Alexis shoves him as she makes her way to Kate, the two of them whispering as they head back toward his room. Yeah, they better run.

(…)

"Is she really okay?" he asks as he stares at the closed door, his daughter already heading back to school while Kate brings their ice cream bowls back to the kitchen. They sent him out for food and he brought back four kinds of ice cream. A little much, but they devoured two containers without shame.

"She is," Kate assures him, returning to take his hand and lead him gently back toward his bedroom. "Sad and tired, but she's okay."

"You okay?" he murmurs, following her through his dark office and into his room.

She hums her consent, leaving him in the doorway as she pads over to the dresser, reaching into the top drawer for a tank top. He watches as she reaches into his underwear drawer and retrieves a pair of boxers, already at home in his room—their room, if the pictures and sweaters and make-up on his bureau are anything to go by.

"You?" she asks, turning to watch as he sinks onto the bed with a sigh.

"Tired," he admits, stretching out and beckoning toward her. She smiles and drops the clothes on the bureau before sliding up the bed to curl into his body, her lips warm against his chest.

"Your daughter is either exceedingly blunt, or desperate for siblings," she says after a quiet minute.

He chuckles, running his fingers through her hair as she shakes out her braid. "Excited, I think," he decides. "Did she say something else to you?"

Kate shakes her head against him slowly, like she might not be telling him the whole truth. "No. It was nice to see her, though." Girl talk, or something right? He has to honor that.

"Yeah," he agrees with a sigh. "You sure you're up for dinner with Graham at the end of the week?"

"Of course," she says softly.

He chews on his bottom lip, weighing his next words. "It's not going to be too much?"

She sighs against him and slides her bare foot up his calf. "I have an appointment with Burke on Friday anyway," she mumbles.

"Oh," he says, stalling his hand to cup the base of her skull.

"You should come to that one, if you want." He watches as her brow wrinkles, her breath fanning warm against his tee shirt, toes inching up and down his leg.

"Sure," he says gently. "Sounds good."

She nods and they fall silent, comfortable, like they're just at another hotel, another night on the road. But they're not. They're in his bed, with her things all over the room—with the recollection of his daughter's teasing spinning around them. She's soft along his side and her fingers trail up and down his chest, reminding him that home or not, they're still them, and they still have a morning to make up for.

He tugs gently on her until she slides up his chest so he can rise up to meet her in a kiss, cradling her head in his hands as she relaxes above him, supple and hot.

"Not so tired anymore?" she mumbles into his mouth, swallowing his gasp as her fingers stray down his torso.

"I think," he says around air and lips and her devious tongue. "I think you promised me some making up—last day and all."

"Oh, did I?" she simpers, scratching her nails back up his chest.

"You did," he insists against her mouth before he rolls them over, grinning at her shriek of surprise. He takes a moment to lave at her pulse, before he pulls back, taking her hands and tugging her up. She watches him with heavily lidded eyes, asks no questions, just lets him back her up into the bathroom door.

"Bed not good enough?" she mumbles against his mouth as she hikes her leg up around his hip, hand gripping at his shoulders as his palm her hips.

"Something 'bout standing," he grunts back, hefting her up so her legs wrap around his hips, groaning as she nips at his lip, her breath fast and throat humming as he shifts with her wrapped around him.

"Welcome home indeed," she breathes as he breaks away to trail his lips down her neck.

"Shh," he presses into her throat.

"Don't tell me to be quiet," she argues, gripping at his hair with one hand while she tries to lift his shirt off with her other.

He grins as they divest him of his shirt, meeting her eyes, both of them bright and alert and still happy—still in love and lust and insane, here, pressed up against his bathroom door.

"I take it back," he says as he takes in her flushed skin, plump lips, brilliant smile. She laughs and pulls him back in for another kiss, tightening her legs around him. "Be loud. No neighbors."


	27. Chapter 27

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Internships are where it's at.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 27:<strong>

"It's a little terrifying that you have a better treadmill than the precinct," she announces as she walks down the stairs, a towel thrown around her neck, her cheeks pink and forehead a little shiny.

"Figured if I was going to work my ass off, I should do it right," he offers, turning on the couch to watch as she pours herself a glass of water.

"Nice bag, too," she adds, wiping at her brow. "Well weighted."

"Espo picked it," he admits, sliding his laptop off of his lap, no longer interested in editing, living room or otherwise. The office felt a little stifling, but maybe it was just the pull of his hot girlfriend and the soft sounds of her kicking the crap out of his hanging bag upstairs.

"Should send him flowers," she muses, leaning back against the counter as she meets his eyes.

"Manly flowers," he agrees.

She laughs and downs the rest of her glass before pushing off to meander over to the couch. She leans over his shoulder, hands on either side of his body, peering down at the laptop.

"Get much done?"

"Some," he shrugs. "I did a chapter last night."

"When you woke up in the middle of the night?"

He turns and kisses her arm, humming his consent. After their two rounds last night, they passed out in a jumbled mess of naked limbs in the middle of the bed. Next thing he knew, he was waking up, desperate for his laptop, things so suddenly clear and right in his head. She found him two hours later, blinking blearily at him as she shuffled into his office wrapped in his blue robe, voice rough with sleep, asking why he was still up.

That had led to round three, and he's honestly a little surprised that she even has the energy to work out this morning.

"How you feeling?" she asks, lifting one hand to try and tame his messy hair. He really should think about showering.

"Good," he says, leaning back to look up at her as she straightens up above him. "Very relaxed," he adds, grinning at her.

She smiles and nods. "Needed to work that off. My thighs were awfully tight this morning."

He beams at her, unapologetic. "We didn't have to do it against the desk, you know," he tells her, smug and happy and halfway there already.

"Oh, but we did," she replies, running her fingers along his cheek before she steps away. "I'm going to shower. Enjoy your writing."

He watches as she saunters away, hips swinging in those ridiculously short shorts; he thinks she brought them purely to torture him. She would never wear those at the Precinct. But she's wearing them here, in his house, at home, and if that isn't an invitation, he's not sure what is.

So he jumps up, clamoring after her, listening as she laughs at the sound of his less-than-subtle footfalls. He doesn't care, just catches her around the middle, there in her sports-bra and bikini briefs, her hair falling messily around her shoulders.

"Castle," she lets out, laughing as he drags the bra over her head, peppering his lips over her sweaty neck as he draws her back into his body.

"I need a shower," he growls against her jaw, fingers trailing down her toned stomach to dip below the elastic of her briefs.

She groans and reaches up behind her, fingers glancing along his jaw as she turns her head to press her lips to his skin, her other hand winding down to stall his on her hips. "I can't," she whines, pushing her forehead into his cheek. "I can't."

He sighs and presses his fingers into her hips, pressure and comfort both. "Damn," he lets out, laughing with her as she huffs.

"I thought maybe," she whispers over the drone of the shower behind her. "But, my Dad wants to have lunch, just got the text, and I don't—Rick, I can't sit right now."

"Shit," he groans. "So not making it easier."

"My pain is sexy?" she wonders, but there's no bite there.

"The memories of why are sexy and," he pushes his hips against her, letting her know exactly what's frustrating. "But I want you to be able to sit down, always," he adds, feathering his lips over her forehead as she hums.

"Sweet," she mumbles, smiling as she leans into him, soft and relaxed. "Need a night off, I guess," she says, and he can't stop his stupid grin at the disappointment lacing her tone. At least he's not alone in it.

"Bath and a book, movie, dancing," he suggests, swaying side to side, his head already filled with visions of a night that's not so sexy, but completely alluring in its own right. That he gets to just have her, hold her, read the paper while she does the crossword—it's what he's wanted forever. It's what makes him happy. The sex is great, but the pride of seeing her making breakfast in his kitchen is better still.

She groans in pleasure and nods, the back of her head brushing against his shoulder. "Perfect."

He smiles and presses his lips to her temple for a moment before stepping back to undress. "We should still shower," he says as he strips down.

"S'no fun without the sex," she pouts, arching an eyebrow as he frowns at her. "Tomorrow."

"Gonna hold you to that."

"You better," she says, stepping around him and into the huge stall.

It's good to be home.

(…)

The café is new to him, but Kate seems to know their way. Her hand is loose in his, fingers rubbing against the meat of his knuckles as she guides him through the crowded Formica tables full of lunch-rushed servers and chattering customers. They wind to the back of the restaurant, toward old red, cracking booths. She's promised him one of the best burgers of his life in return for meeting with her father.

He didn't need the bribe, but his stomach and nerves seem to have decided that it's a fair trade. She glances over at him as they approach her father, squeezing his slightly sweaty hand. He's met Jim before; they get along. He has no reason, what-so-ever, to be nervous. Except that he wants to spend the rest of his life with the man's daughter, plans to get her wonderfully pregnant, and has been practicing so well that she hides a grimace as they slide into the booth. Yeah, nothing intimidating about this woman's father at all. Nope.

"My word, Katie, you look wonderful," Jim says by way of greeting.

Kate blushes, actually blushes, and he feels her hand tighten around his, caught between their thighs beneath the table. "Thanks, dad," she says softly.

"Good to see you, Jim," Castle adds.

"It's good to see you too, Rick. Katie tells me you had a wonderful time on your trip."

"We did," he agrees, stroking his thumb over Kate's hand. "A little sad it's over, actually."

"Understandable," Jim says, nodding as Kate relaxes and sighs quietly. "Good to be home to get everything together for work though, isn't it?"

Kate nods slowly, her hand going slack in his. He leans into her, gentle pressure, reassurance, and she fills up, breath sucking back into her lungs as she meets her father's eyes.

"Actually, I think I'm going to take a few more weeks," she says softly, using her free hand to fray the edge of a napkin on the table-top, shy and timid and Katie, he supposes.

"Oh," Jim says quietly. "Relaxing?"

Castle watches as Kate weighs her words, her options. He hasn't gotten the chance, didn't think to ask—didn't think to wonder over what she and her father really share. They don't speak nearly as often as he and his mother do, though his mother does live with them—him. Damn.

Something clenches in his chest as the silence lingers, a bizarre feeling of dread sinking into his stomach. Alexis used to tell him everything, but it's less now. She tells him less now. She tells Kate, or his mother, or Lanie. She's pulling away, and it's subtle, but now, watching the Becketts, he wonders. Will this be them in ten years?

"PTSD," Kate says softly, so quiet that he barely catches it. But Jim's eyes go wide and he watches the man's hands twitch on the table-top.

"Again?" Jim asks, and Castle's head snaps up. He must be talking about November, and the sniper. Kate told him?

"Still?" she replies, shrugging, small. "Flared up again in November."

Again. Again. It rings in his ears. Over the summer too? When she was gone she had it? She shook and screamed and dreamed so horribly, without him? It jolts through him, liquid and desperate, and she glances at him, startled as his hand clutches around hers.

"Rick," she intones quietly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, forcing himself to relax, because he's gone rigid in belated regret and grief and, crap, her father is right there.

"How bad this time?" Jim asks, breaking their staring match.

Kate glances back to him, her fingers gentle between Castle's as she looks at her father. "Not nearly as bad as the summer," she says slowly. "Panic, mostly. Nothing, like—no night terrors."

She won't look back at him, won't make the eye contact he's boring into her head. "Kate," he lets out, because her father knows, must know, what this is doing to him.

"I'm fine now, Castle," she grits out.

"I know," he shoots back, trying to keep his voice even. It doesn't matter that she's fine now; it's then that he worries over—the ghosts of then that haunt his dreams. "And you're not fine," he corrects absently.

She snaps her gaze to his, eyes stormy, because they're doing this in front of her father. But she's not really telling the whole truth, and it's not his place to say it, but she's ripping him open.

"I am," she asserts, looking to Jim. "I'm just not—I'm skittish."

"Jumpy," Jim says, nodding.

There's silence for a minute, but it's muted, contemplative, anticipatory. Kate refuses to look at him, but as the seconds tick by, her body shifts, relaxing slightly with the way her father isn't reprimanding her, or disapproving—things Castle can't even contemplate.

"I'm proud of you," Jim decides, smiling gently at his daughter.

Kate snorts. "For not diving headlong into work? Join the club," she says, jutting her chin toward Castle. He frowns at her, but her hand tightens around his, not quite comfort, but not reproach either.

Jim chuckles softly. "I see this trip didn't soften you two."

Castle laughs, startled, and Kate's mouth tilts in an almost-smile. "Might have to wait for babies," he lets out, clamping his mouth shut as he's hit with twin expressions of shock. With Kate on alert and Jim messing with his nerves, he's just not on his game.

"Babies," Jim repeats slowly.

"God, Castle," Kate groans, releasing his hand to cover her face, her cheeks flaming.

"Are you?" Jim asks as Kate glances at him through her fingers.

"No," she says firmly, and Castle feels her foot digging into his. Yeah, he kind of deserves it, doesn't he? "Castle just has an extraordinary ability to flap his gums."

Jim laughs, full and comfortable, and Castle feels his guard lowering. Jim gets it. He must. He married her mother, and if she was anything like Kate, he must understand.

"Should I be breaking out my father speech?" Jim asks, his eyes sparkling.

"Please," Kate says, perking up. "And make it good?"

"Hey," Castle interjects, nudging her. "Don't encourage him. You're supposed to defend me!"

"Oh yeah? You want defense, don't tell my dad I'm pregnant," she shoots back, giving him a smug grin. "Now, let me up and order me a burger," she directs, pushing on him until he stumbles up.

She's leaving him with her father? Not cool. "Kate," he whispers as she slides out and stands up, her body bumping into his.

"Man up," she says impishly. "And really. He's not that scary."

"You'll pay for this," he hisses, turned so Jim can't see; he probably knows anyway.

She smiles and pats his chest, arching up to press her lips to his cheek, her other hand steadied on the metal edge of the booth. "Play nice," she adds as she breaks away, leaning around his shoulder to grin at her father.

"Always, dear," Jim says with a smile, waving Kate away.

Castle watches her go for a moment before he slowly turns back and slides into the booth, meeting Jim's eyes. He's not that scary a guy. But he is the father of his girlfriend, of the woman he wants to marry. Ah jeez.

"So," he says, biting the bullet. The staring is just too much.

"How is she, really?" Jim asks, dropping his façade and leaning forward, hands clasped together over the plastic placemat.

Castle blinks, twisting his hands into the cracking polyester seat on either side of his thighs. He might have liked the vetting more. "She's getting there," he replies. "No terrors, just—she's had a few panic attacks, some dreams. Too jumpy for field work, definitely."

Jim bobs his head, taking it at face value. "But she's sleeping, eating?"

Castle nods quickly. "Yes. Very well, better than me, even," he says.

"And you?" Jim continues, giving him a look that's somehow a cross between Kate and his mother. Is that what he looks like to Alexis?

He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a tired-looking college kid with her hair pulled back in an unkempt bun. Her smile is over bright, and she takes their order enthusiastically, joking with Jim as they hand over the menus. He watches her go, wonders if that's what Kate looked like after her mother died—frazzled and tired, but trying so very hard.

He slowly brings his gaze back to Jim and finds the man watching him curiously. "I'm about the same, I guess," he admits, because, like Kate, there's something about Jim that exudes a quiet calm, an openness, even as he is guarded and a little hardened. "More worried about her than anything," he adds.

Jim smiles slowly, tapping his fingers against the table. "You have a ring?"

Castle splutters. "Sir?"

Jim laughs, shaking his head. "If you can toss out babies like it's nothing, I assume you're thinking about it."

He considers lying, considers saying, 'too soon,' and 'fragile thing,' but he just can't. Jim is her father, he understands, he knows. And at this point, no one could possibly look at Castle and not see how head-over-heels-he he has fallen for Kate Beckett.

"Not yet," he offers, smiling sheepishly back as Jim grins.

"You getting one?"

"I thought I'd get her to move in before I got the ring," he says, but it comes out half question and he can't fight the urge to slouch a little. He feels about four years old.

"Always have the ring," Jim tells him sagely, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue, taking a moment to swallow as another kid comes over with their three coffees and waters, giving him time to try and wrap his head around her father. Now he knows where Kate gets it, some of it.

"Always have the ring," Jim repeats as the kid walks away. "You're gonna come up on the world's most perfect moment, and you will be damn sorry you don't have it."

He stares at her father, gaping as the man laughs. "I—uh, yeah. I'll, um, I'll get on that."

"Not Johanna's," he says softly. "Katie might like the significance, but I—let her stay on the chain."

"Of course," he says solemnly. "I wouldn't. It's—she has the necklace, and I want her to have that, and have this," he offers awkwardly. They're going to be related someday, he and this man, and there's so much common ground already. But it's strained, growing, burgeoning, and nothing in that state is ever smooth.

Jim smiles and shifts in his seat, taking a deep breath. "Even with the PTSD, I don't think I've ever seen or heard her so happy. Thank you."

Castle goes to respond, his head empty of words, of ways to tell him that he's the lucky one, the one who should be thanking her father, but Kate pops into view before he can come up with anything.

"You being nice?" she asks her father, patting Castle's shoulder to get him to scoot into the booth.

He does, watching as Jim nods and smiles, sending him a conspiratory look while Kate makes her coffee.

He has permission, and needs a ring. So not what he was expecting out of this. But as he watches Kate steal fries from her father's plate, even though she has her own, he thinks he gets it. Jim wants to keep seeing this Kate too—the happy, lovely, grinning, mischievous woman who smirks as she eats her fries and runs her toes along his calf under the table.

Somehow, miraculously, she wants him, wants him forever. He needs a ring yesterday.

(…)

"M'I allowed to ask questions?" he murmurs into her cheek as they sway in his living room, her in a pair of sweats and a tank top, and him in flannel pants and an old, worn tee shirt.

The carpet is soft beneath their feet, her hand warm and small in his as she crowds closer, leaning her head down against his shoulder while something smooth and low he doesn't recognize flows out of the speakers attached to her iPod.

"Questions?" she mumbles, her damp hair tickling his jaw as he rests his cheek against her forehead.

"Last summer," he whispers, unsure, but desperate to know. Even through dinner, and a movie, and their bath, he couldn't shake it. Even thinking about rings, he couldn't shake it.

He feels her rattling intake against his pulse before she nods against him, her hand tightening at the back of his neck.

"You had PTSD then," he says, stating rather than questioning, hoping maybe that's easier somehow.

"I didn't know what it was," she says, her lips ghosting over his skin. "But yes."

He presses his lips together, suppressing the groans and the declarations of love and regret that threaten to tumble from his lips, to hear her say she didn't know—that she just lived it, didn't understand it.

"Were you lonely?" he asks instead, unsure of what he wants from her answer.

"Horribly," she admits, her fingers kneading into his nape, a steady, thrumming presence.

"I—" he tries, his words struggling against his constricted throat.

"You learn a lot about yourself," she says, head still firmly planted on his shoulder so he's left staring out the window at the blurry lights of the city passing them by. "Some of it I wish I didn't know."

"Like what?" he manages, slowly turning them as they rock together on unsteady feet.

"Like that I need to take a few deep breaths before getting in a shower alone," she offers.

"Shower," he repeats, baffled. "But that was—"

"Years ago," she supplies, nodding against him. "But time was…relative over the summer. Bombs, freezers, tubs—I didn't have a great grasp of reality for a while."

"God, Kate," he breathes, unable to stall the words. Everything, she remembered everything, felt it, was terrorized by it.

She presses her lips to his throat. "I'm better now."

"But then," he lets out. "I can't—I would have—in an instant. An hour, Kate. Oh, I would have—"

"I needed it. You know that," she asserts, pulling back to meet his eyes. "And no matter what my father tells you about those months, I need you to stop doing this," she tells him softly. "Ask, but stop blaming yourself. My choice, my personal sentence. I could have called. That's on me."

He sighs and nods, bending down to press his forehead to hers. "I'll try," he tells her.

"Try harder?" she asks, sounding a little sheepish, but it's getting to her, digging in and making her guilty of something he doesn't want to give blame. He's just—it hurts. This hurts, knowing how much pain she was in, especially since it's less now. Now is pretty damn bad as it is.

He hums and presses their lips together, light, unseeking, just contact. "Yes Ma'am," he murmurs as they pull apart.

"Don't call me Ma'am when I can't do anything about it," she groans, pressing closer, pulling back, unable to decide.

He laughs, startled, and looks down at her. "Ma'am? Really?"

She grins up at him, eyebrow raised. "Got a problem with it, Mr. Castle?" she simpers, evil and sexy and he can't, he can't; she can't.

"Wishing we'd refrained last night," he whines. She gives him a look. "Okay, no, but, well, don't make me choose!" he exclaims. "Desk sex or Dominatrix Beckett? How is that fair?"

She laughs and leans into him, wrapping him up in her, hugging in place of dancing. "Not Dominatrix," she says to his neck. "But, well, maybe?"

He can feel her wrinkling her nose and he laughs. He'll take plain old naked Kate—doesn't really need more than that. "I'll still call you Ma'am."

She grins into him. "Wasn't the desk sex anyway," she tells his pulse.

He can't help the way his chest swells at that. "Round two?"

She nods and he feels her blush, that heat in her cheeks flaring against his neck. "Your badge of honor did me in," she admits.

"But three times," he tells her temple. "And you enjoyed it."

She laughs, kissing his shoulder, his cheek, his lips. "Just having trouble with the whole walking and sitting thing."

"I'd apologize, but I just can't be sorry for that," he says as she pulls back to look at him, soft, with her wet hair curling around her face. "You're amazing."

She smiles and arches up to kiss his nose in a gesture that steals his breath away. "You're not so bad yourself," she whispers.

"Wanna try for four tomorrow?" he asks quietly, his fingers caressing her waist.

She groans, biting her lip as she sways into him again. "Castle," she mumbles, forehead against his cheek. "I—it's not even, you don't even get, I—" she stumbles through while he laughs against her skin.

"But you do," he says, wishing more than anything he could do it for her now, to show her just how much a round just for her does it for him. "And I…can't," he adds softly, trying his hardest to keep the resignation from his voice.

She pulls back to look at him, smiling as she runs her fingers up his cheek to trace the lines beside his eyes. "I hardly care," she tells him. "And for 40, I sometimes have to wonder if you're popping little blue pills while I'm not looking."

"Are you calling me old?" he gasps.

"Virile," she insists. "You better not be old, Castle. Someone has to chase those kids you have my father clamoring for."


	28. Chapter 28

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Unpacking, and cars, and the Hollywood Sign! Busy, busy, updates might be slower. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28:<strong>

He really wants to get her a ring. He'd even take looking online. Really, he would. But he doesn't ever seem to have the time. First they go shopping for groceries, then, well, they get caught up. Then he has to edit. Then, well, they get caught up again. Then they sleep. Then, since it's so unseasonably warm, she insists on going back to her apartment for that dress she left, and he doesn't want her to go alone, so he goes with her. And before he knows it, they're in his kitchen cooking for Alexis' dinner with Graham, and he's not really sure where the last two days went. They certainly didn't go to looking for a ring; that's for sure.

But Kate—Kate is relaxed, joyful, simple. She moves around him in the kitchen like she owns the place, that purple sundress flowing around her knees as she spins for spices, making something that might actually be curry as he watches, dumbfounded.

"What?" she asks, sparing him a glance as she dips the tip of her finger in the warming sauce and slides it into her mouth.

"No—nothing," he says, trying to shrug, though it comes off jerky. He's been standing at the edge of the counter watching her for what must have been the last 20 minutes. She just fits—fits and he wants that God-damned ring so much.

"Uh-huh," she offers. "What's bugging you?"

"Bugging me?"

She straightens up and gives him a look, but he's not budging. "You've been sending your iPad pining glances since yesterday."

"I have not," he protests, a little spooked by how accurate she is. Then again, she is a detective—was a detective—will go back to being a detective. Ah, hell, they have Burke tomorrow.

"Okay," she says slowly. "Now what's bothering you?"

"Nothing," he assures her. "Nothing's bothering me. Just—I like watching you cook," he offers, giving her a smile. It's true, maybe not the whole truth, but he does love to watch her float around his kitchen.

She hums and rewards him with the flutter of her lashes, hiding her smile. Yeah, she likes being in control of his kitchen, he can see it. Doesn't bother him a bit. She can dominate whatever she wants, be it the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom; she won't find him complaining.

"Do we know if Graham has any food things?" she asks when he finally gives in and peels potatoes for her. He doesn't question potatoes in curry; she seems to have a knack for this stuff.

"Define food things." He passes her the peeled potatoes and watches as she fries them separately. Who knows what she's doing.

"Allergies," she bites back, frowning at him. "Aversions to—you were a 20-year-old once."

"Whoa," he drops the peeler into the sink and spins to face her. "He's 20?"

Kate regards him curiously, wiping her hands on the dishtowel. "Yeah."

"How—he's 20? That's too—he's 20?" His daughter, his sweet, 18-year-old daughter is dating a 20-year-old kid? That's not—she can't—his baby, his baby girl is dating that far up? And she's sleeping with him, or well, beside him, in his apartment. No, so not okay.

"Hey," Kate says gently, walking across the gap between the island and the counter so she stands in the vee of his legs where he's slumped against the countertop. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—he's 20! That's a huge deal."

"No," she says firmly, leaning around him to drape the towel over the partition in the sink, pressing her body into his. "You're eight years older than I am."

"But that's not the same," he protests, looking down as she straightens up against him. "You're—"

"Careful big guy."

"You're grown," he growls, grabbing her around the waist to haul her further into his chest, hands gripping at her curves. "You're a grown woman and I'm—you're you, okay? It's different."

"Is it different for my dad?" she counters, sliding her hands up his chest to rest behind his neck, toying with his hair.

"We haven't discussed it," he admits, running circles over her waist. "But if you were 20, and I was 28, with a daughter, no less, I'm sure he'd have a problem with it."

"Well, she's 18, and he's 20, and it's two years, Castle, not eight."

"Still," he whines, avoiding her eyes even as she pushes up on her toes to try and glare him down. "I just—I was 20, and I was—"

"Good enough to almost screw up Kyra's wedding," Kate whispers, bringing his eyes to hers in surprise. "She was madly in love with you, and she's real, so you must have been something good then."

He opens his mouth but finds himself with nothing to say. She's just extraordinary, and it's—she has a point. He wasn't an ass then; it was later, really. Well, before and after, he supposes. "But," he manages.

"But nothing. Your daughter told me she thinks she's never felt this way about anyone, even Ashley. So you better be nice to him." It's astounding how she can be lithe, and supple, and so lovely, and still manages to be this scarily menacing.

"I will," he says quickly. "I will, I just—she's my kid, my baby. And I want—" He sighs and shakes his head, rubbing their foreheads together as he leans down to touch hers.

"You want her to be happy," Kate insists, her hands sliding to cup his cheeks. "And she is. And she's good for him, Rick. Really, she is."

"I want that too," he groans. "I just," he sighs and breaks off, searching her eyes.

"If I had looked like Alexis looks when she talks about Graham, my father wouldn't have cared if you'd been twenty years older than me with ten kids."

He snorts and she cracks a smile, pausing to press her lips lightly to his.

"Okay, maybe then. But you? At 28, with a little Alexis? Oh, he would have loved you guys. Well, if Mom had been alive—anyway, if you made me as happy as Graham makes Alexis—"

"I get it," he mumbles. "I do. And I'll behave," he concedes, leaning against her, tired and old and wanting for something he can't even seem to define.

"That's all I'm asking."

He nods against her forehead and gives her a half-hearted smile as she rubs her knuckles against his light stubble. It ignites something in him. "Your dad would have been okay with you becoming a step-mom at 20?"

She smiles indulgently at him. "Without the mitigating circumstances, for you? Yeah, I think he would have."

"I can't," he starts, trying to imagine it, trying to see Kate then, see himself, his daughter—a different family.

"This is good," she asserts, stepping back, her fingers sliding back down his chest and then along his forearms. "My dad is crazy about you."

He arches any eyebrow and she laughs. "Yeah?" he lets out though, because he does want that confirmation. Jim wants him to have a ring, but it's—he's a dad, he knows there are levels to it. Complex, confusing levels of approval are everything when it comes to your daughter.

"Yeah," she confirms, smiling. "Now help me set the table so Alexis feels like you approve of Graham."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you better not tell her for a long time," she cautions. "She likes this guy. She's falling in love with this guy."

"Kate," he groans.

"Come on, Dad. Buck up."

He glares as she releases his arms and spins around to continue cooking. "When did we get to a point when you're the one giving me pep talks about this?" he wonders aloud as he grabs five plates; his mother will be arriving with the kids. He has to give Graham some credit for that. And, he supposes, for what it's worth, his mother already approves of the guy.

"This point? I've been telling you to lay off of Alexis for years," Kate insists as she brings glasses over behind him. "Tracking her phone? Come on."

"I'm tracking your phone," he argues petulantly, and oh, she gives him such a look.

"Special circumstances, and as I recall, it wasn't to be mentioned, Mr. Paranoid."

"Not paranoid," he grunts, nudging her as they pass each other, her to the fridge, him to the stove to stir the rice for her curry thing.

She considers him across the island, hands on her hips. "Not paranoid," she agrees softly. "But me, not Alexis. That's just being a helicopter parent."

"Don't tell me you read that one too," he whines, adding salt to the rice. "Alexis wouldn't lay off me for months after reading that article. I called her one too many times on a school trip and she took away my random calling privileges."

"You're not a helicopter dad," she sighs, walking around to stand beside him and stir the curry. "You're overzealous, but not overbearing. And Alexis thinks so too."

"I like this," he enthuses with a little grin. "This telling me the good stuff? That I like."

"She also thinks your goofy sweats are just as embarrassing as I do, and wishes you wouldn't open the door for take-out wearing them," she says evenly, eyes focused on the pan.

"Shut up," he grumbles, moving away from her to tidy the living room, where they've left a trail of blankets, pillows, and—good catch—a pair of red panties and one of his dress shirts. "Stop letting me get you naked in the living room," he calls out, tucking her lingerie into his shirt before he balls it up.

"Stop doing that thing with your tongue in the living room," she fires back as the door clicks open.

"What thing with Dad's tongue in the living room?" Alexis offers as she leads Graham and her grandmother inside.

Castle chucks the shirt through the bookcase into his office, praying that no one goes in there, and tosses Kate a grin. Her cheeks are pink, and it's delicious enough to distract him from the fact that Alexis is leading her serious boyfriend over to the living room to meet him, Kate and Martha following in their wake.

"Dad, this is Graham," she says, looking so very grown up in a blue sundress with her hair piled up on her head in some kind of complicated bun. "And Graham," she gestures to the tall kid with striking green eyes and curly brown hair; he's cute. Damn. "This is my Dad, and his girlfriend, Kate."

He feels Kate's fingers curling around his waist as he shakes the kid's hand, his echo of, "So nice to meet you, Mr. Castle, Ms. Beckett. Alexis has told me wonderful things," ringing around the room.

"Likewise," Kate offers as they drop hands. "And I'm sorry for your loss," she adds, softer.

Graham gives her a sad smile, bobbing his head. Castle watches as Alexis' fingers thread through her boyfriend's, his thumb rubbing circles over the back of her palm. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Alexis watches him, and Castle can see it—can see how he is with Kate in how his daughter must be with Graham. The way he lists into Alexis, the grip of her fingers, the small glances between them as Kate offers drinks and Alexis drags him down onto the couch—he sees everything. It's there. They have it. And he does, he does want that for his kid. Just, she's not a kid anymore.

"Alexis tells me you spent a few weeks in my neck of the woods," Graham offers once they're all seated in the living room, the kids in the center of the couch, his mother in an arm chair, and Kate on the lounger portion of the sofa. She tugs him down beside her and he lets himself fall momentarily entranced by the way her fingers curl onto his knee.

"Yes," he says about a second too late. But Alexis merely shakes her head at him and Graham smiles down at his knees, like he understands. Oh, he understands because—because that's how he feels with Alexis, his daughter.

"It was great," Kate adds, squeezing his leg to bring him back to the conversation. "But we didn't make it out to your home field. You're in Ottawa, right?"

"Right," he agrees. "I'm in the District Du Versant. My father's a surgeon at Gatineau."

"What specialty?" Kate asks and Castle watches as Alexis beams at his girlfriend.

"Trauma," Graham says softly. "It's—it's been hard."

"Understandably so," Castle interjects. "Did you get to relax at all, or were you caught up in arrangements?"

Graham shrugs. "More arranging things, but I did see some of my younger friends, which was nice. Lots of people brought casseroles and food. My dad's going to gain a bunch of weight," he tacks on with a forced chuckle. Castle glances to the side and catches Kate as her face softens in recognition.

"My favorite were always the casseroles where you could tell that the person just took all of their leftovers and put them in a pan," Kate says with a small laugh. "Sweet of them, but not particularly edible."

Graham chuckles in agreement. "Yeah. We had one that was cheese and artichokes. Strange."

"Gross," Alexis mumbles, wrinkling her nose. Graham laughs and nudges her, grinning.

"Sorry it's not up to your standards, princess," he fires back.

"Hey now. I ate your weird chocolate egg and skittles thing, didn't I?" she says, sending Castle quite a look. "He might beat you for the best, worst breakfast food ever."

"Worse than the smorlette?" Kate cuts in. "Not possible."

"He got you to eat a smorlette?" Martha interjects, astonished.

"Tricked me," Kate asserts, shooting him a glare. Oh, but the look on her face was so worth it! "Folded it perfectly and then I had a mouth full of egg-smore."

"Ah. Yes, he tried that on Alexis. How many bites did you manage?"

"Six," he crows, laughing as Kate digs her nails into his thigh. "She barely noticed for the first three."

"He was distracting me," she argues. That won't get her far. He was busy trying to get her shirt over her head; that's not a story to tell the kids, or his mother, for that matter.

"It's a Castle initiation," Alexis tells his girlfriend with a sympathetic smile. "Welcome to the club."

"Do I get an ice pack and noise cancelling headphones?" Kate asks with false interest.

"We'll think about it," Martha puts in while he glares at the three of them.

"Graham. Would you help me plate dinner?" Castle says as the timer goes off in the kitchen. "Leave the women to gang up on me."

Graham laughs and follows him as he stands, dislodging Kate's hand with a glare. She just grins at him and moves around Graham to plop down next to Alexis, leaning close to whisper something in his daughter's ear.

He leads Graham into the kitchen and hands him the rice while he turns off the burner under the curry thing and brings it to the table. "Are you getting back into school well?" he asks as they take turns passing plates and divvying out the curry for everyone.

"I guess," Graham says, shrugging. "It's been tough."

"I'm sure," he agrees. "Anything—" he breaks off, contemplative. "If there's anything I can do to help—fees, arrangements, trips back home, please let me know."

Graham stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide. "I, uh. Thank you, Mr. Castle. That's—that's very generous of you."

He waves him off, glancing over at the couch, where his daughter is laughing uproariously with his girlfriend, both of them pink and giggling and gorgeous. "I'm sure Alexis has explained about Kate, and what's happened," he offers quietly. "I just know that if I could have helped her then, I would have. And sometimes having less to worry over makes it…better."

Graham nods and drums his fingers on the table, considering him, weighing his words. Maybe Castle does have some of the intimidation factor Jim Beckett has. It's oddly comforting.

"Sir, I—I already have Alexis. I don't really know—I don't think there's much else I could need from you."

He stares at this kid, this young man, with the slightly hollow eyes and deep purple circles on his cheekbones. This kid, who has just been through a horrible loss, but manages to smile and laugh with his daughter—this kid—he just needs Alexis. That's all.

Castle opens his mouth to say something, to agree, or disagree, or anything, but the girls trot over. He watches as Alexis kisses Graham's cheek and tugs him down across from Kate. His girlfriend's fingers dance along his hip, gently guiding him to sit, since he seems to have lost the ability to process thoughts or movements.

"Dad?" Alexis asks as everyone around him start taking sips and bites and settling in.

"Sorry," he says quickly, taking a large bite of Kate's dinner. "Oh," he hums, astounded by the strange-yet-pleasant mix of Indian spices and Asian flavors. Honestly, where does the woman learn these things?

"Kate, what is this?" Alexis asks reverently. "It's amazing."

"I'm glad," Kate says, grinning at his daughter. "My mother used to make it; just something she figured out once, playing around. I can teach you to make it if you want."

"Please," Graham says, smirking as Alexis laughs and whacks his arm.

Castle catches his mother's eye and they share a silent laugh as Kate and Alexis tease Graham, versions of, "Men belong in the kitchen," flying across the table.

He tries to hold onto it, tries to find vestiges of his earlier dislike, his issues with the age difference, but he can't. He likes this kid. He's funny, and interesting, smart, kind, empathetic, and he has his mother and Kate wrapped around his fingers twice over. Castle can see why. And he approves. He does. She's—his daughter did good, chose well, found the right guy. If Graham's words at the start of dinner are any indication, she's good for him, like it looks like he's good for her. God, the light in her eyes—he used to give her that.

"Hey," Kate murmurs, sidling up to him as he does dishes, the kids and Martha somewhere in the living room.

"Hey," he whispers, drying the last dish before turning to look at her.

"Whaddya think?"

He sighs and meets her sparkling eyes, all alight and happy. "I like him," he admits. "You?"

"I think he's great," she enthuses, grinning. "In fact, I'm tempted to steal him from her."

He growls and lunges for her as she laughs, yanking her into his chest to fuse his lips to hers. "Twenty is way too young for you," he grunts against her lips.

She scoffs but drags her fingers through his hair, hips pressing up against his. "I could get a younger guy," she mumbles.

"Yeah," he agrees. Men, all men, from 15 to 90 are drooling over her, even in sweats and a braid. "But you're mine. No stealing from my kid."

"Guess I'll settle," she teases, leaning back to meet his eyes. "You okay?"

He blinks, catching up with her. She's really too quick for him sometimes—most of the time. "Yeah." He runs his palm over her side, watching as she shivers. "Might need a pick-me-up later."

She smiles and arches up to meet his lips, this kiss tender and full of promise. "Return the favor tomorrow?"

He nods, his forehead against hers. They stay there for a moment, looking at each other, Tomorrow will be infinitely harder than today. "Might have to be mutual. Saturday can be your night only."

She laughs, her breath against his lips.

"Hey, guys," Alexis calls out, amusement lacing her tone even though he can't see her and inanely hopes she can't see them. "Wasn't there supposed to be ice cream?"


	29. Chapter 29

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Life is busy, but not Andrew Marlowe busy.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 29:<strong>

The light in the corner of the room keeps blinking every five seconds—just a minute flicker. It's driving him batty, but he can't let on. He keeps his legs still, hands relaxed, posture normal. He doesn't want Kate any more on edge than she has to be. She's already fidgeting, apparently as nervous about this visit as he is, despite the fact that she already knows Burke.

That's unfair of him. She has just as much to unload—more even. He just—he's selfish, and he wants to lean on her, but he can't. He has to be strong so she can be strong, otherwise this session could turn into some kind of mess. He hasn't been to therapy in a long time—too long, if he's this nervous.

"Castle," Kate hisses, and he looks over at her, there in her jeans and black leather jacket. She looks normal, like Beckett, like always; but there's absolutely nothing about this hour that's about to be normal.

"What?" he asks, innocent.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop acting like you're not freaked out. It's freaking me out," she tells him, sending him a look.

"O-kay," he says slowly. "You want—should I pace? I could pace."

He relaxes as her lips twitch, holding back a smile. "You could let your leg go. I think your thigh muscles are about to explode."

If she wants nerves, he can give her nerves. He can do that. "What's with the light? Can't they afford to change the bulbs?" he mutters, leaning closer to her, his fingers trailing up and down her arm as he lets his leg jiggle.

"I'm sure they can," she huffs, close to laughing. "How long you been holding that in?"

"God, since we got here. It's killing me."

She smiles then and stops his hand on her arm, squeezing his fingers. "He's nice."

"Burke?"

"Yeah. A little, hm, abrupt, sometimes. Reticent others."

"You're just using big words to make me feel better," he says quietly, ignoring the relief in his chest; she hasn't talked about Burke, not really, in over a month now. Honestly, he could use a little more time to prep. But, then again, he's not really supposed to prepare, right? They're just there to talk. Burke does the work, or helps them figure out how to do it?

He shakes his head, unsure, as she laughs, bright and comfortable beside him. "You caught me, Castle."

"I appreciate it," he mumbles, watching her smile before she leans up to kiss his cheek.

"I'll try to augment my vocabulary to the utmost of my ability," she mumbles into his skin.

"Miss Beckett, Mr. Castle," Burke's assistant calls out, opening the door to his office. "Dr. Burke is ready for you."

"Thank you, Bernice," Kate says as she stands, tugging Castle up beside her. Bernice gives them a warm smile, her red curly hair an ample distraction as Castle follows Kate into the office—Burke's office. Oh, what has he gotten himself into? He's a walking goldmine of issues, and really, if he doesn't already know about them, he's not so sure he wants Kate to know about the new ones either.

The office is inviting. He can see why Kate might like it—chic, but warm too. It's sparse, but Burke has outfitted it with stylish shelves and a comfortable, plush rug that spans the distance from his black, leather armchair to the two across the room, a small table between them. The chairs are cast in early morning sunlight that falls in slats through the blinds to cast long swatches of light across the floor.

Burke himself is there by the second armchair, hand extended to take his. "Mr. Castle. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Castle manages, taking the man's hand as they lock eyes, understanding black to deep blue. He likes this guy. He trusts this guy, even if he does kind of sound the way he imagines an evil villain would—a really calm, collected, comforting evil villain.

"Kate," he continues, dropping Castle's hand as Kate steps up beside him. "Good to see you."

"You too," she says quietly.

"Come and sit," Burke instructs softly, leaving them to follow in his wake. Yes, Castle definitely understands what she gets from this guy.

They settle into their respective chairs, separated by the small wooden table. He watches as Kate pulls her legs up into the armchair with her, almost like it's habit. She catches him looking and begins to unfurl her legs. He smiles, hoping to put her at ease, and she halts her movements, cutting her eyes to Burke, who Castle finds watching them curiously, objectively.

"How was your trip?" he asks almost casually.

"Good," Castle offers. Kate relaxes in her chair and shares a quiet laugh with Burke. "What?"

"I've spent a year telling him that you rarely speak in less than three sentence paragraphs," she tells him.

"Ah," he manages. "I, uh, it was—I could go on for a while," he offers, a little more at ease for the gentle ribbing.

"If you'd like to," Burke says easily. "Kate might have an idea of what direction to take, if, as I would imagine, issues have come up over the last month."

Castle looks to Kate, more than willing to follow her lead—a little relieved by the very idea, really. Following her is normal. Normal is good. She gives him a small smile and nods, turning back to Burke as she reaches out to trace the outline of a small wooden figure on the table to her right.

"It was lovely," she decides after a moment. "I haven't—I can't remember being so relaxed in a very long time."

"Before your mother?" Burke asks.

Kate nods. "Yeah, I guess not since her death."

Burke bobs his head and considers them. "Mr. Castle—"

"You can call me Rick," Castle interjects. "Or Castle. Kate seems to like both."

"It's situational," she defends with a small huff as he grins at her. "You like it."

"Not arguing, just elucidating," he fires back, bringing his gaze back to Burke, who looks amused. He wonders if Kate has talked about them—the them that banters and argues and needles. He doesn't want to be so self obsessed to think she talks about him here all the time. But some of the time, surely.

"All right, Rick," Burke offers with a smile. "Did you find the trip relaxing?"

He wants to give a quick, 'yes,' but catches himself. Honesty is why they're here, right? "Somewhat," he decides. "I," he glances at Kate. "I didn't readjust as well as Kate did."

"Readjust," Burke repeats.

"Um," Castle shifts in his seat, crossing his legs and fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, the cashmere soft beneath his fingers. "This summer has been—I don't know what Kate's told you," he cuts himself off.

"Everything," Kate says softly.

"Everything. Okay," he says, nodding inanely. "So, yeah. I, uh, was very on edge and, um, worried? Worried about her. So when we got to Canada I didn't really—Kate was able to sort of leave it behind but I—I'm used to worrying about her," he lets out with a sigh. "Over-worrying, I guess."

"And now that some time has passed, do you feel like you're letting your guard down more?" Burke prompts, folding his hands onto his knee.

"I," Castle begins, glancing at Kate, who simply smiles. "She's letting me track her phone," pops out before he can stop it.

"Letting you—like a GPS tracker?"

Castle glances at Kate, a little lost. She shakes her head rather fondly and looks to her therapist, nodding. "Castle was having panic issues, and I thought—it just seemed like a good solution. That way, I can go out without him, and if he's really feeling paranoid, he can check and make sure I'm alright."

"I'm not paranoid," he cuts in, defensive. He's not. But he is. But he doesn't want Burke to think he is, and Kate's word holds more water than his does.

"No," she corrects. "I'm sorry. Not paranoid but protective? Does that—more like it?"

"Protective," he agrees.

"Has it helped?" Burke asks curiously.

"You know," Castle says suddenly. "I haven't checked it." Kate laughs, startled, and they share a look. "So, yeah, I guess it has."

Burke smiles as Kate continues laughing. "I think that's a good solution, and, doing what you do, Kate, it's never a bad plan to have that extra security, especially if it helps Rick feel at ease with you branching out."

Her laughter falls away and Castle has to fight to stop himself from reaching out, just to take her hand, to run his fingers over her palm, her cheek.

"Yeah," she says quietly. "I guess."

"Kate," Burke prompts gently.

"Castle's been protective and I've had a—the PTSD is worse, or still there. I don't know. But it's gotten worse than it was," she spits out. "I have PTSD, and it's not going away with time," she says slowly, more directly.

"Does it feel like it did last November?" Burke asks.

"No," Kate replies, shaking her head. "No, it's more—I seize up, but I come out more quickly, right?" she says, turning to look at him.

Castle blinks. Right? Does he really know? He listened to her sob that one day, stuck behind a steel door, trapped on the other side. He gave her to Javi, asked Javi to help him help her, because he couldn't do it—wasn't good enough, didn't have enough to help her. "I," he starts, feeling helpless again, his hands falling listlessly to his sides.

"You might not have a direct comparison, but it might be helpful to hear what you experience when Kate has an attack," Burke offers.

"Oh, yeah. Okay," Castle stumbles inelegantly. He can do that, maybe. "Uh." He glances at Kate, feeling awkward and childish and lost. "You go pale and if we're touching, you kind of freeze. Deer in the headlights is really the only way I can explain it," he says, watching her.

She smiles and nods. "Kind of what it feels like."

"Okay. So, yeah, and you get quiet; you don't breathe well. But you're still—you're still you, you know? I don't feel like you disappear, or—you know how to get out of it, and you help me help." He turns back to Burke. "I don't know, but in November, I couldn't help, and now I can. I don't know if that means anything," he trails off.

"It does," Kate and Burke say at the same time.

He nods and glances over at Kate. "Okay, well that's good then, right?"

"Yeah," she agrees. "It's not as bad as it was, but." She looks to Burke. "But I'm not—we went to the Rodeo in Calgary and just the blank shot set me off. I don't think I'm—" she cuts off and Castle watches as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I don't think I'm ready to go back."

"That's fine," Burke says, calm and comforting. "You don't have to go back on Monday."

"I just," Kate breaks off and sighs. "I don't know when I'll be ready."

"That's okay too," Castle interjects. She huffs and shoots him a look, half amused, half annoyed.

"He's right," Burke adds, smiling as Kate turns the same look on him. "There's no deadline. You've let yourself live for the job for nearly 13 years; you can take more time off."

"I know," she replies, and Castle would laugh at the petulance in her tone if the situation were different. "I do."

"But it's bothering you," Burke deduces.

"Of course it is," she says, glancing at Castle. "It's great to take time. I like it. I love it," she says, meeting his eyes. "But I want—I like our new normal."

"Me too," he says as she takes a breath, watching the way her face relaxes at his words; it fills him with pride sometimes, that he can do for her what she's always done for him.

"I just, I want to—if I decide to quit the Force, I want to do it because I want to, not because I can't go back," she offers.

"Are you considering leaving?" Burke asks after a moment, when Kate's words have settled heavily over the room.

They should have all of their big talks here; she's so much more eloquent. He's almost jealous. Then again, he does enjoy Stuttering Kate, who is as awkward and unsure as he is.

"Maybe," Kate offers softly. "I don't—I kind of like not worrying about whether or not I'll be alive by the end of the day."

Castle bites his tongue—doesn't want to interrupt. This is her moment now, not his. But oh, he wants that too, wants the assurance that when they go to sleep, she'll be there beside him, every time.

"That's a fair thing to want," Burke tells her.

"Yeah," she agrees. "And I," she glances over at him, her left hand curled on the armrest, her ring finger caught in her others. "I want more," she lets out. "A life, and family, and kids, and a wedding. And I can have those and be a detective."

"You can," Burke assures her. "It shows huge growth that you can want those things now, Kate—that you're letting yourself want them."

Kate nods in acceptance and looks over at Castle. "Yeah."

"And Rick, how does this affect you?" Burke asks.

Castle stiffens and meets Kate's eyes. She smiles shyly and then looks at her lap. Really? He has to—really? Well, okay. He can—he can do that. "I, uh, I want her to be happy," he says. "And if that's at the Precinct, I'll keep following her around, and if it's not, then I'll be happy with that too," he tells them. "I just—long as I get to be there, I'm good."

Kate smiles and glances at him before she looks to Burke, who's watching them with what Castle imagines is a soft look on his relatively impassive face. "So none of your relationship is contingent on Kate's career," Burke supplies.

Castle looks at Kate, who bites her lip, taking it, even though he can tell that it's nearly too pedantic for her liking. Can't hurt for either of them to hear it again. "Right," he agrees.

"Does that help?" Burke asks, looking at Kate. "To know that this between you is stable?"

"Yes," Kate says very softly. "I don't want it to replace the Precinct, to turn into the same thing, but yes."

"To take the place of solving crimes."

"Yeah," Kate agrees. "And it hasn't. I don't think it will," she continues, glancing over at Castle. "I'm just happy."

"Happy is good," Burke says.

"It is," Castle adds.

"And with time, and happiness, I think your PTSD will recede," Burke tells them. "Stability is key, as is continued relaxation. Have you been in contact with Esposito and Ryan?"

"Some," Kate says. "I think Gates directed them to keep me out of the Precinct."

"She has," Castle admits. "Didn't really want to mention it, but they're not allowed to talk to you about cases," he continues, even in the face of her glare. "What? Would that have been helpful, or just pissed you off?"

She sighs even as her eyes stay narrowed. "I don't—yes. I didn't need to know," she admits grudgingly.

"Rick, was there a reason you kept that from Kate?" Burke asks, though he looks more interested than accusatory.

"It would have pissed her off, and the boys told me in confidence."

"Girlfriend trumps guys," Kate offers glibly.

"Hey, bros before hos," Castle fires back quickly, clamping his mouth shut and wincing as his words ring around the room.

"Yeah, you sit with that," she says smugly, laughing. "And I know, Castle. If they didn't want to tell me, I get that."

"They just—they wanted to—they don't like making you upset," he says. "You're a little scary."

Kate laughs and even Burke cracks a smile. "Thanks," Kate lets out.

Burke lets them settle for a moment, watching as they share a few looks, trying not to get into anything else they could just as easily laugh about at home. "Do you find yourself eager to get back to work?" he asks, bringing them back into it.

Kate bites her lip and glances out the window for a moment. "No," she whispers. "No, I don't. I don't—I like being a detective. It's interesting. But I'm not—I'm not drawn back, I—" she looks at Castle, but he doesn't have words for her, can't help.

He loves this—loves them like this. He loves waking up with nothing to do but shower, and eat, and maybe go for a walk. He loves watching her cook in his kitchen and chat with his daughter. He loves that she'll let him take her to expensive restaurants, or all the way to Canada, or maybe even to the Hamptons. He loves it. He does. But he loves the Precinct too—the banter, the chase, the thrill of the solve, the euphoria of the post-close. Either way, he's happy. If she's there, he's happy.

"But I don't know what to do otherwise," she admits, regaining his attention.

"You've been driven for so long that I would imagine a lack of direction is unsettling," Burke poses.

Kate shrugs and shifts in her seat, curling her legs up under her body. "It should be," she tells him. "But I—I'm just, I'm lazy, and comfortable, and sometimes it's nice to wake up, shower, and go back to sleep." She glances over at Castle and grins. "And I like not knowing sometimes. But I don't—I don't think I'll like it forever," she decides slowly, looking back at Burke.

"But you're comfortable in the question now, correct?" Burke prompts.

"Yes."

"I want to urge you to try and stay there—to just let yourself settle into this. Taking another month, even two, would be understandable, and more than acceptable, given all that's happened."

"I know," Kate sighs.

"And I'm sure Rick would be more than happy to try a number of things out with you, should you decide to test out other careers or places or trips."

"I haven't been to Europe in a while," Rick cuts in, earning him a raised eyebrow from Kate and a chuckle from Burke.

"You can let yourself enjoy this, Kate. And the PTSD, and grief, and anything else will fade with time if you let them, and if you open yourself to letting them go; don't let an attack ruin the day."

Kate nods and looks over at Castle. "I'll try."

"You can be happy, Kate," Burke continues. "It's good to see you happy."

"Yeah," Castle agrees, meeting her eyes. "It really is."

(…)

"Lanie says hi," Kate says as she pads into the bedroom, the bottoms of her sweats trailing along the floor over her bare feet. "Looking forward to seeing us tomorrow at the Haunt."

Castle jerks and looks over at her, quickly exiting out of his browser on the iPad. Rings—he got to see about 40 of them while she talked with Lanie, but none of them were right. Too big, too small, too flashy—she needs something elegant, and traditional, but with a little flare, a little him in it too. He's going to have to go out and do it for real, hit Tiffany's and Barney's and the retail places. He's going to have to talk with his mother, maybe make a call. He must know a guy in rings.

"Sounds good," he says lazily, a little too late, watching as she crawls up beside him, all lithe limbs and quiet exhaustion, eyeing him. But he's not giving anything away, and she doesn't have the energy to pester him about it as he slides the iPad onto his bedside table.

They spent the rest of the day together, quiet, wandering the city before they ended up back at the loft, cuddled on his couch, dozing and reading and watching "Thor," on his iPad. Content. He's content. But he's exhausted too. The appointment was good, validating, comforting, but it sucked the life out of them and left them needing to recharge.

"God, your bed is comfortable," she says as she flops down beside him.

"Yeah," he agrees, grinning as she swats at his chest. "Better than yours."

"Shut up," she mumbles, curling into him so she can slide a leg over his, her arm creeping across his chest, cuddling. "And yeah."

"We could mattress shop tomorrow," he says a few minutes later. "Make that a new thing for the day."

"I'm supposed to think, not start a campaign to do something new every day," she says, tapping her fingers against his sternum. "Don't start trying to convince me into things all the time."

"Me?" he asks with mock surprise. "You don't want to try skydiving?"

"No," she says quickly. "Stop."

"Hang gliding."

"Castle," she protests, whacking him. "Seriously."

"Fine," he mumbles, pouting. "Ruin my fun."

"With pleasure," she says, relaxing against him. "I could go for a walk and brunch though."

He smiles and cards his fingers through her hair. "Sounds good."

They lay there for a while, simply relaxing, her body warm and heavy over his. "Thank you," she whispers. He looks down at her and she meets his gaze. "For coming with me today."

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, no, I—of course. I was—you're welcome," he manages lamely.

She laughs and presses her lips to the worn cotton of his gray tee shirt. "I love you," she says into his chest.

"I love you too," he tells her, threading his fingers into her hair until he can cup her skull. "Thanks for taking me."

She smiles and lifts up to press their lips together, soft and warm and Kate. "Bros before hos?" she mumbles into his lips

"Lies," he manages, nipping at her bottom lip. "You trump the guys."

"M'I better than Madden?"

He groans and flips them, resting over her as she grins up at him, happy and teasing and glowing. "Definitely better than Madden," he says as he bends to feather his lips over her face. "Better than crack."

"Oh, jeez," she huffs, laughing as he blows a raspberry into her neck. "Castle!"

He laughs into her neck, sucking in air so he can trail his lips down her jaw and then up to her ear. She pants against his cheek, her hands gripping into his shirt. "You are," he asserts, drawing her earlobe between his teeth.

"Don't tell me…that's on your…rap sheet," she gets out as she raises her hips to wrap her legs around his waist.

"No," he promises. "Wanna add to the rap sheet? Help me get some more misdemeanors?"

She growls and flips them back over. "No," she says sternly. "Good, clean, fun," she continues. "I want to be able to go back, if I want to."

He looks up at her and nods, reaching up to cup her cheek as she hovers over him, her hands on either side of his head. "I want that too," he assures her.

She smiles and presses her cheek into his palm. "No agenda."

"No agenda," he agrees. "Walk and brunch."

She nods and bends down to feather her lips over his. "Save the adventurous stuff for a few more days."

"Gotcha," he mumbles. "Come on," he adds, siding out from beneath her to stand up.

"What?" she asks, a little dazed as he hauls her up and tugs her toward the bathroom.

"I thought you wanted good, clean fun," he says, quirking an eyebrow at her as she starts grinning. "Thought maybe you'd fancy a swim in my tub."

He opens the door and brings them inside, flicking on the lower lights to bathe the room in a soft glow. She arches up to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he clutches at her waist, running his hands over her slim figure beneath her tee shirt. He breaks away from her mouth to trail down her neck, grinning as she gasps and clutches at the back of his head.

"Maybe not so clean," she reneges on a labored breath, spinning them and pressing him up against the glass door to the shower.


	30. Chapter 30

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I'm going to write a show someday. Today, I have fanfiction.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 30:<strong>

"Hey," she says, tugging on his arm as he reaches for the door to the Old Haunt.

He turns and looks at her, standing still a foot from the door, her free hand in a fist by her side. He takes a step back toward her, squeezing her hand in question as she stares at the door, the city bustling above them through the gap of the awning. He does love that you have go down stairs to get to his bar.

"You okay?" he prompts after a moment when it becomes clear that she's caught up in something.

"What? Oh, yeah," she mumbles, blinking at him. "Uh—yeah."

He chuckles, can't help it. She doesn't even frown at him. Suddenly it's not so funny. "What's up?"

She hums and shakes her head, taking a step toward him to pat his chest almost absently. "Let's go in."

"Hey," he protests, pulling her back as she takes a step around him. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she sighs, rubbing her hand over her forehead. "Nothing. I'm being stupid; it's nothing." He raises an eyebrow and her lip twitches. Oh, yeah, he learned that from her, didn't he? "I thought I was going back Monday the last time we talked, okay?" she huffs out.

"Oh," he says quietly. Well. "Oh, they're not going to care."

"I know that," she growls.

He bobs his head but can't quite stop his mouth. "Then…"

"Shut up, Castle," she fires off, but she's smiling again. "Just—shut up."

"Shutting," he says with a grin, letting her drag him inside. Insecure Kate is still such a mystery, but apparently he doesn't have to solve much to help. Oddly warming, really.

The gang is already seated in the booth at the back when they enter. Ryan, Jenny, Espo, and Lanie are all crowded into the circular booth that's always a tight fit; but they never do anything about it. There's something about rubbing elbows and jostling foreign feet that makes it feel like a night at his bar, like home, like family. Maybe he could have changed it, suggested a bigger booth way back before they had a regular, but every time they came, he got to sit next to Kate, and rub elbows with Kate, and jostle thighs with Kate, and really, how could he have given that up then? Hell, he can't give it up now.

"Castle," she mumbles as he stumbles into her back while she takes off her coat, hanging it by the bar. "Jeez."

He doesn't bother apologizing, just takes the drinks Al hands him—their usual—and gives his girl a grin. "Come on. Homecoming night."

She bumps his shoulder but grins, tossing him a wink as they make their way to the table. He watches her, a few steps in front of him, and lifts his eyes in time to see the whole table smirking at him. What? She's—he totally has the right to do it now.

"Beckett," Espo greets, standing to wrap Kate in a hug that she returns, her lips pressed together in a soft smile.

Castle puts their drinks on the table and shakes Ryan's hand as the girls sidle out of the booth, taking their turns to squeal and hug Kate as Espo approaches him too.

"Good to see you, man," he greets, clasping his hand around Castle's with a smile. "You look good, both of you."

"Thanks," Castle says, smiling as Ryan nods. "It was a good trip."

"Good to have you back," Ryan adds. "S'been quiet without you two around—no arguing."

"Like the two of you don't squabble enough for the four of us," Kate puts in, coming to shoo the boys back into the booth.

"We don't squabble," Esposito protests.

"Never," Ryan adds definitively while Lanie and Jenny laugh.

"Good to see you, Castle," Lanie says as she and Jenny make their way around him to slide into the booth.

"Likewise," he offers, squeezing her free hand while her other drags Kate in beside her.

Kate grabs his hand, completing the chain and yanking him down next to her so they're squashed together. He has to smash his leg into hers to stay in the booth. Oh, he remembers this—the way it was the highlight of a week, pressed up against her. It might still be the highlight of his week, especially when her hand falls warm and weighty on his thigh, her other fingers wrapped around her bourbon. Sexy, sexy woman.

"You two look relaxed," Esposito announces. "How's it feel to be back?"

"Nice," Kate offers before taking a hefty sip of bourbon. Lanie nudges her before Castle can and she blinks, looking over at her friend. "What? He has good bourbon."

Lanie laughs and clinks her glass with Kate's. "I'll drink to that."

"Me too," Jenny throws in, leaning across to join their little party.

"Good beer, too," Ryan says, creating a man-clink so they're not left out. "Bet you had some good stuff on your trip though."

"There were a few nights, yeah," Castle hedges, Kate's hand squeezing his thigh. Oh, there were nights, but not nights to tell the boys about.

"Great pictures of you on that coaster," Esposito chimes in with a smirk.

"You sent those?" Castle gasps, turning to Kate, who's hiding in her bourbon, grinning.

"What? You didn't notice?"

"Well, no," he says, sagging. "That's not cool."

"But funny," Lanie says, leaning over to smirk at him. "You do a good terrified, Castle."

"Thanks," he grumbles, taking a swig of his beer. "How has your month been?"

"Good," Lanie, Espo, and Ryan chorus. Jenny laughs, nodding along. "You've missed some good ones," Esposito continues.

"I'd imagine," Kate says easily, but Castle feels her tensing up beside him.

"We were thinking we'd give you a run down on Monday," Ryan adds, smiling. "See if you guys can crack them retroactively."

Castle glances at Kate. She called Gates this morning, but it seems the Captain was unwilling, or forgot, or something, to tell their team that Kate was still on leave. And he understands. He does. It's something Kate should tell her subordinates, since they're social friends. But at the same time, why put her through this? He mentally makes a check in the 'dislike' column he's built up in his head for the Captain and watches as Kate takes a deep breath.

"Actually. I'm, um, I'm going to take another month or two," Kate announces softly.

Silence falls over them, so loud against the rush of sound around them—the laughter, and cracking pool cues, and drinks being poured. He watches as they all take it in, Ryan and Espo in quiet, tight-lipped understanding, Lanie with wide eyes, Jenny with concern and compassion. He hopes they won't ask questions. She's so still and stiff and stoic beside him; he doesn't want her to spiral down, doesn't want this time of healing to have a stigma other than freedom and fun.

"Okay," Esposito says finally. "Just makes it harder really."

"Yeah," Ryan says easily, though Castle can see that it costs him—can see how worried both of the guys are for their boss. "Now you'll have three months of solves. I don't know if you guys are up to it."

"Please," Castle says, going for humor, for ease, for some semblance of normalcy. "We could solve your cases in our sleep."

Jenny whistles and Lanie laughs. "Don't go making bets you're sure to lose, Castle," she cautions.

"Sure to lose? I'm insulted. I'll have you know that I am right at least, what," he looks to Kate, sees her relaxing with every word, every jibe across the table. "Sixty percent of the time?"

She snorts and brings her hand up from his thigh to pat his hand on the table. "You keep telling yourself that."

Everyone laughs, and even though it's thoroughly at his expense, the world seems righted again. "I'm insulted."

"You're delusional," she tosses back, letting her fingers link with his, there on the table for all to see.

It makes him grin, and Esposito catches him at it. Castle watches as he and Ryan smirk at each other, spies the distinctive corner of a bill passing from Ryan to Esposito. Lanie and Jenny have lured Kate into a discussion, so he sits back and watches his little work family interact around him.

"So, bro, two more months. Plans?" Esposito asks a few minutes later, bringing him back to the present, away from memories of Kate and visions of the future—less bars, more living rooms with playpens and Christmas trees. He's such a sap.

"None yet," he admits with a light shrug. "I mean, we did just see all of Canada."

"She's not gonna let you take her off the continent, is she?" Espo continues.

"I'd let him," Ryan adds, blinking once he hears himself.

"Oh, Ryan, we'd have a lovely honeymoon," Castle says, swooning a little. "Imagine, a little villa in France on the Mediterranean, with a deck."

"You in a little frilly bikini," Esposito adds.

"Why are we discussing my husband in a bikini?" Jenny asks, turning back to them as Ryan sits there, pink and fuming.

"Oh, Kevin was just telling me that he'd gladly let me whisk him to France," Castle says nonchalantly, catching Kate's surprised laugh out of the corner of his eye.

"Flowers on the bikini, definitely," Lanie throws in. "I can see it, blue for his eyes."

Ryan groans and Jenny pats his hand consolingly. "You'd look good in one, honey."

"Thanks," he grumbles. "New subject?"

"What are you going to do for two months?" Lanie wonders, turning her gaze to Kate. "You mentioned a benefit?"

Kate's fingers squeeze his and he watches her soften, smiling at her friend. "Castle started planning a benefit in my mom's honor last year, but then, well," she trails off and everyone grimaces along with her. Then things got in the way—gunshots and doctors and conspiracies and secrets. "Anyway, we've started planning it again, and I think I'll try and take an active roll in that for a month or two, see if we can't get it together by Christmas time."

She looks to him and he nods. He got an email from Paula a few days ago, and he keeps forgetting to mention it to her. Paula's completely on board, sees it as a publicity event, and a charity event, and a promotional event for him and for the NYPD all wrapped up into one. It's perfect, and he has a feeling that it will be spectacular with Kate's added guidance.

"That's lovely," Jenny says, and the group nods around her, all smiles, all care and concern and love for Kate. Though, he notices a few looks thrown his way too, full of compassion.

"It is," Kate agrees, leaning into his shoulder. "And Castle knows people."

"Gonna be a big fancy affair then," Esposito deduces. "Black tie?"

"And then some. Gala dinner with a silent auction and a live band," Castle explains. "I should forward you the email from Paula," he adds to Kate. "She has some great ideas and loves the venue."

"Great." She smiles and runs her thumb along the side of his palm, soothing and loving. "Sounds good."

"We're invited, right?" Ryan asks, looking hopeful. "A Castle soiree is always worth the extra paperwork that piles up."

"Of course," Kate says quickly, before he can come up with a jibe. "Better yet, you're required."

Esposito grins. "Is that an order?"

"Damn straight." Kate smiles at her friends, thoroughly relaxed beside him. "Best table."

(…)

"Castle," Lanie calls out, drawing him back from the pool table where they've gathered, he and Kate against Espo and Ryan. "Give Jenny your cue."

Kate glances at him, confused, and he shoots Lanie a look. "Now?"

"She's good. Trust me. I've got a stocks question for you," Lanie continues, gesturing for him to follow her to the bar.

With a glance to his friends, it's clear that no one believes that cover, but he goes anyway, leaving Jenny Ryan to clean up against her husband and his partner. "A stocks question?" he asks as he joins Lanie at the bar, sliding up onto one of the leather-padded stools.

"Yeah, well, I'm buzzed," she offers, laughing.

"I'll drink to that," he decides, grinning as he motions to Al to give them two more. "What's up?"

"Honeymoon?" Lanie asks, no precursor, no lead up.

"Excuse me?" he manages.

"You said you'd take Ryan to France on a honeymoon. You thinkin' of takin' Kate on a honeymoon sometime soon?"

He considers lying; she is Kate's best friend, and they talk. But she's also his friend, and God does he need someone to bounce this off of. "A little, yeah," he admits quietly, laughing as Lanie nearly spits out her drink.

"Seriously?" she gasps.

"Yes," he whispers, giving her a look. "And Kate knows, but not—she's not expecting a ring or anything right now."

"Kate—" She shakes her head, obviously saving that for her friend, of course. Damn women. "You lookin'?"

"Desperately," he tells her. "But it's hard. We're—don't get me wrong—we're together all the time. Makes it tough."

Lanie nods sagely, smirking. "Getting a little antsy?"

"Trying to follow sage advice and being thwarted by my girlfriend's presence, which I have no desire to change," he corrects, unable to stop his smile as Lanie laughs.

"Oh, Castle, you're so done for," she says, light and pleased. "But you need a day?"

"I could use one," he admits. "But I don't want to ask—sounds crazy, but I just…yeah, a day would be good."

"Consider it done," Lanie promises. "I'll take her out. She needs to do some shopping to fill your cavernous closet, so I've heard."

"So you've heard," he repeats, trying to keep his face impassive. Kate wants to fill his closet? She wants…that's—some of his closet? She can have all of it. The one upstairs too.

"Deep breaths, Castle," Lanie says, patting his arm with a laugh. "I'm gonna join the party. Come over when you can walk."

He watches her go, laughing at himself, at her, at all of it. There's a feminine whoop from the pool table and he turns to see Kate and Jenny high fiving, Espo and Ryan sulking across the table. It's good to be home.

(…)

"Honey," she calls out of the bedroom, distracted. He nearly drops his laptop in shock as she appears in the doorway wearing his shirt and holding her cell phone. "Castle?"

"Uh," he manages, too completely floored to manage anything else.

"Hey," she says, a little sharper.

"Yeah. Um, yes?" There, that's a little more coherent.

"Did you convince Lanie into taking me out today so you could have the loft to yourself?"

Man, he just can't win, can he? "No," he says quickly. She raises an eyebrow, but it lacks suspicion. He didn't, not really. "No, she said she wanted a day with you, and I said I'd use the time to finish my edits."

"Uh-huh," she offers, pushing off from the doorway to saunter over to him. "Why don't I believe you?"

"I dunno, honey," he deflects, watching as her eyes widen and a blush creeps up her neck. Totally unconscious then—he can be okay with that. "Honey," sounds a little strange rolling off her tongue, but it's nice. It's different.

She glares at him after a moment and walks over to stand beside him, reaching out to move his laptop from his thighs, setting it on the desk as she leans over him. "We're never going to mention that again," she breathes, flicking her eyes down to his lips.

"Whatever you say, honey," he says, smirking as she growls at him. "My lips are sealed."

She leans in and presses her lips to his, prying his apart, devouring him until he reaches up and hauls her into his lap, sending them rolling back into the mantle behind him. They bounce back and spin a little, breaking apart to keep themselves from falling over.

She laughs, one hand braced on the desk, the other tight on the back of his neck. "Smooth," she mumbles, kissing his cheek, her breath fanning hot against his ear.

"I'm not in control of the wheels," he tells her neck as he bends to feather his lips across her throat.

"Ah," she says, bringing her other hand back to comb through his hair. "Not your fault then."

"Right," he agrees, leaning away to get a look at her. "So where's Lanie taking you?"

"On this girl's day that has nothing to do with you, you mean?"

"Of course," he says innocently.

She gives him a look, still slightly disbelieving, but takes the bait. "Shopping. She says we need to start looking at Gala dresses."

He grins and slides his palm over the smooth curve of her thigh, bare beneath the hem of his shirt. "Dresses huh?"

"Lanie enjoys playing princess every so often," she says, shrugging.

"And you?"

"It can be fun," she admits, laughing as he digs his fingertips lightly into her skin. "I'm thinking something tame, demure, you know?"

"Oh, but I was thinking skin," he says, bending forward to nibble at her jaw, sliding his hand up to palm the small of her back. "Lots of dancing," he continues, drawing his fingers up her spine, delighting in her shiver.

"You're not getting me to go Nikki Heat at my mother's benefit dinner," she breathes out, her lips at his temple as he laves along the expanse of her throat, nosing the collar of his shirt out of his way.

"Sexy Beckett. No Nikki needed," he mouths against her skin.

She laughs, gripping at his shoulders as she turns on his lap, sliding her knees to either side of his thighs. "Sexy Beckett, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

She smiles, gliding her palms along his jaw to cup his cheeks, her thumbs smoothing beneath his eyes. "That what I should tell Lanie?"

"I'll text her," he says, pushing forward to catch her lips with his. "Right now, I'm thinking you should lose the shirt."

"Not sexy enough for you?" she gasps out.

"Too sexy," he manages, winding his hands around to get at her buttons.

"You want me in nothing?" she whispers, curving so his hands can trip up to the last buttons low on her chest.

Well, not nothing—he'd love her with a rock on her finger, just that sparkle against the low light through his slitted curtains this morning. But for that, he needs to send her off with Lanie. She leans down to press her lips to his throat and he decides that maybe he can keep Lanie waiting, just a little.


	31. Chapter 31

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: They'd fire me if I took three weeks to post an episode.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 31:<strong>

When he leans over the eighth counter to rub his hands through his hair, it strikes him that he really never thought he'd be doing this again. He does not enjoy ring shopping. Well, he enjoys the hype, the anticipation, the thought of that look on her face—the last look he'll ever see. There's not going to be a fourth ring. This is it.

But that's the worst part. This is it. This is his last ring. The last one. And it needs to be perfect. Perfect. Stunning. Gorgeous. It has to be Kate.

"Nothing, sir?" the lovely attendant, Anna, asks, leaning back against the opposite counter sympathetically.

"Nothing," he groans. "I'm trying."

"She must be pretty special."

He meets her eyes and nods, watching as a smile crosses her cheeks, her short blonde hair framing her face as she shakes her head. A few years ago, she might have been just up his aisle. "Man, she's really got you."

"You have no idea," he says, laughing. Nothing—he's got nothing for her. Not one ounce of feeling. Kate definitely has him.

"So no luck anywhere?"

"None," he sighs. "You're the sixth place I've tried. I expected it to pop out, you know?"

She bobs her head in agreement and looks around. "Well, we do have some things in back that I could look at," she says tentatively. "Expensive."

He laughs. Expense is no object. "That's fine."

She blushes. "No, I mean—really expensive."

"Anna, bring me what you've got," he says easily. "Nothing is too much, really."

She smiles and spins on her heel, disappearing through a service door at the back of the little shop. He tried Tiffany's, and Sacs, Nordstrom, Barney's—everything. And now he's here, at this little boutique, with expensive watches in the front and rings in the back and he's no closer to the perfect ring. He's at least closer to incognito though. Tiffany's was a zoo of fans and he's spent the day looking over his shoulder for paparazzi; the last thing he wants is his face with a ring in the paper before he gets to Kate.

He glances forlornly at the counter as the door opens across from him. It takes one glance and he's down on the floor on his stomach. What the hell is Lanie doing here? With Kate?

"I don't know, Lanie," Kate muses, and he listens, unwilling to even poke his head around the base of the display. "You think he'd like it?"

"You said his watch broke last week."

"Yeah," Kate agrees. "But I don't know. Does that say three months? A watch?"

"You know what really says three months?"

"If you mention that red bustier again, I'm going to hurt you," Kate threatens and he has to push his fist against his lips to keep himself quiet.

She's shopping for a three month anniversary gift? Three months. Wow. That—soon, yeah. A week. Is that the time? Or should he wait, get her to move in? She hasn't been home yet, aside from picking up clothes. It doesn't seem to bother her, and certainly doesn't bother him.

But he doesn't want to propose on an anniversary. He didn't even know they were really doing anniversaries—didn't expect her to be that kind of girl. Multifaceted and constantly surprising, he should never assume. But now he gets to buy her a present. What's best? Her own laser tag gun? Might be too soon. Oh, though, maybe not—maybe they can ease her back in like that.

He could go with jewelry, maybe. That might work. Then again, she doesn't really wear too much of it.

"Mr. Castle," Anna says, appearing from the back room. He shakes his head vigorously and she glances down to him, shock all over her face. Well, they certainly don't pay her for her acting.

He winces as he hears Lanie's sharp intake of breath. He'd be pissed, but really, they would never expect him in here. Lanie couldn't have known.

"Mister—" That's Kate. Shit, that's Kate, and he's not so lucky to think that she didn't hear Anna. "Excuse me."

"Lie!" he mouths, but Anna looks like a deer caught in the headlights. She has the forethought to toss him the small pile of ring boxes. They land around him, one on his face, and he lets out a small grunt that he can't contain.

"Did you say Mr. Castle?" Kate asks, and he can see her shoes through the counter—the black pumps that make her legs go on for miles.

"I, ah," Anna stumbles. "No, no. I guess he's gone—Mr. Castiel, I mean."

"Mr. Castiel," Kate repeats, and she's not buying it.

"Come on, Kate," Lanie says quickly. "Could be any Mr. Castle, or Castiel. I don't think a watch is right anyway."

"But I liked that one in the corner," Kate argues, and he rolls his eyes, shifting the ring box off of his face and into a small pile by the base of the counter. If he has to pop up, he's certainly not doing it with a ring box in his hand. "And I know Rick will like it. His other one broke last week and you know him; he'll never remember to get it fixed himself."

"So you could fix that one instead," Lanie suggests, and he can hear the nagging edge to her voice; she wants Kate out of here, STAT.

"Or I could get him one that wasn't a gift from Gina," Kate retorts, and his fist is nearly inside his mouth with the effort to keep from making a sound. Anna is watching the whole exchange with interest, glancing down at him far too often to be covert.

He didn't realize—barely remembers even telling her that. But it must have stuck, whenever she asked. It's a little petty of her, but it's also kind of sweet. It kind of makes his heart ache pleasantly and makes him wish, more than anything, that Lanie could get her the hell out of here so he can buy a ring, and maybe earrings, and a necklace. Huh, there's a scepter over there; would Kate want a staff? That might be going—crap, shoes on the move.

"Beckett, I think I saw a watch like that a few stores back, cheaper," Lanie tries.

"No," Kate asserts. "This one has little books hammered into the band."

He blinks, the wind knocked out of him. She wants—that's sweet. That's really sweet and lovely of her. He glances up and finds Anna watching him with a soft smile. Okay, he's thoroughly, disgustingingly, desperately smitten. He'll admit to that if she just stops staring at him.

"Miss?" Kate calls, and Anna snaps her gaze up to her. "Could I look at this?"

"Kate," Lanie protests.

"Of course, ma'am," Anna says quickly, and Castle watches as she ushers them both toward the front. "Does your boyfriend like books?" she asks, and he smiles, listening as Kate and Lanie laugh.

"A bit," Kate hedges while Lanie snickers.

"He writes," Lanie puts in.

"He—oh, oh my word," Anna lets out. Great.

"Everything okay?" Kate asks, watching as Anna stands there, stock still, her hand reaching into the glass case for the watch.

"Uh, yeah," Anna says brightly. "Totally. The watch, yeah?"

"Yeah," Kate says slowly.

"So you're the detective, then," Anna says, going for casual and utterly, completely failing.

Castle rolls his eyes and quietly shifts onto his back, getting comfortable. He'd try to make a run for it, but Kate would hear him, and Lanie's obviously not going to be able to worm him out of it.

"Yes," Kate says easily, like it's no big deal. "I take it you've heard of my boyfriend?"

Anna stumbles as she moves back toward them, suddenly ungainly in her one-inch heels. Poor kid. "You looked familiar, from that, uh—"

"Magazine spread," Lanie says quickly. Really, ladies, she's a trained detective.

"Right!"

"Yeah, two years ago," Kate agrees, confused, dismissing it. "I just—I think he'll like the watch."

"Oh, he definitely will," Anna says as they walk over to a different counter. It's a shame that the register is on his hiding spot.

"Are you appraising it?" Kate asks.

"Oh." He rolls his eyes as Anna comes to a halt. "No, just, register, right."

"Look!" Lanie says desperately. "Do you think Javi would like that?"

At Kate's scoff, Castle can tell that he definitely wouldn't. "Not at all. Have you lost your mind?"

"Just curious."

He can hear the panic in Lanie's voice as all three sets of heels make their way over to his counter. He shifts down, away from the register, so Anna can step up to it. He's too tall though, and ends up on his side with his knees pulled to his chest. Kate's shadow falls over the case, peering at the rings.

"Looking for something pretty?" Lanie teases.

"Shut up," Kate says quickly.

"See anything you like?" Anna asks. No acting skills. None. Totally suspicious.

Kate hums and he perks up. This could be—underhanded, really underhanded, but he doesn't care. And she'll love it. It's such a great story.

"Maybe," Kate offers after a moment. "But, well, this one," she points, and he desperately wishes he could see less that the outline of her finger, falling in shadow across the inner counter. "But if the side stones were smaller, maybe? Lanie?"

Lanie's shadow falls over the counter too and he watches with rapt attention, feeling like he can almost see the ME grinning at him through the opaque shelf. "Sapphires, maybe?"

"Would make putting on gloves tough," Kate adds, thoughtful.

"Didn't know you'd given this so much thought," Lanie ribs.

"Again, shut up," Kate replies, laughing. "I just—I mean, he's been—you heard this already."

"Heard what?" Anna pipes up, and that's genuine. She's interested, though, maybe she just wants him to hear it too.

"How he proposed like three times on their big trip."

"Did he really?" she asks, almost squealing. "But—no ring yet?"

"No," Kate says, and he sees her shadow shrug. "We decided to wait a little, but I don't know, he's been antsy. But I doubt it's for this."

Ha! He's outsmarted her. Point for Castle.

"Then what's he antsy about?" Lanie wonders.

"Dunno," Kate says quietly. "Maybe me not going back to work? I haven't figured him out. He's been surprisingly evasive about it—effective too."

"At the rate you two are going at it I'm not surprised you're easily sidelined," Lanie offers, delighted and disgusted and fascinated all at once.

He clamps his mouth shut, trying not to laugh and cringe at once. She thinks he's upset about her taking more time? That's not okay at all. It's great that all the sex is an ample distraction, but he has to put that fear to rest, tonight. But, hm, without letting her know he's heard all of this. Oh, she might actually be pissed once she puts it all together; and she will. He knows she will. His smart girl. Woman. Fiancé. Girlfriend. Shit. Detective, who will know the moment his breathing gets louder than a whisper.

"Sounds like a hell of a guy," Anna puts in.

"He is," Kate agrees. "Annoying as hell, too."

"Amen," Lanie puts in. "Nosy too."

He frowns. She did that just because he's stuck back here. Women.

Kate laughs. "But, yeah, lovely. And, I don't know."

"There are flat rings, you know," Anna says tentatively. "We can inset the diamonds into the metal, so it's still there, but it shouldn't snag on latex."

"That sounds good, right?" Lanie needles.

"It does," Kate muses. "And I like the sapphires, I guess."

"Different stones?" Anna suggests.

"I—I'll love whatever he gets," Kate decides. "And I don't—don't let me pick it all specifically; that can't end well."

He hears Lanie huff. Damn. "But you like a flat ring, right?"

"Are you—did he put you up to this?" Kate asks after a moment.

He wishes he had. That would have been brilliant. And he's sure Lanie could have done a better job if she didn't also know he was right there, listening.

"No. No, I can honestly say that he in no way set me up for this," Lanie placates. "I'm just curious."

"Sure you are." He sees Kate's hands fold over the counters.

"Is there a particular stone you like more than sapphires?" Anna wonders.

"Stop," Kate says gently. "I'm not—let's just do the watch."

"Okay," Anna says easily. But Castle can see that she's dejected. Sweet kid. He really should find something nice to do for her; this is way over her head. "Would you like it engraved?"

He hears Kate take a breath. "I—that's too much," she says, but it's more of a question than a statement. "I mean that's his thing."

"Nothing says you can't steal his thing," Lanie offers. "Then again, maybe not. Maybe do it another time. A surprise."

"Like it wouldn't be a surprise now," Kate says, laughing.

"It would," Lanie says quickly. "But the watch is surprise enough, right? Engrave his ring."

Kate goes silent and Anna glances down at him. He shakes his head and she snaps her gaze back up. But apparently Kate hasn't noticed.

"Yeah," she breathes out. "Yeah that works. Can I have the watch?"

"Of course," Anna says quickly. He watches as she gift wraps it. Boy, maybe he needs to propose first. He's not sure he can feign surprise on this one.

"Thank you," Kate says, passing her credit card over the counter.

"You're very welcome," Anna says, handing her the card and the watch box. "I hope you have a wonderful anniversary."

"I have a feeling she will," Lanie adds. "Thank you."

"Have a good day," Kate says as Lanie guides her out of the shop.

They wait an entire minute before he slowly stands up. "Thank you, Anna," he says as she grins at him. "I—I had no idea that was even a possibility."

"I'm just glad they didn't see you. You're going to have to do a good job when she gives you that watch."

He laughs. "I think I'm going to have to propose before she gets the chance," he offers. "But, now that I know what she's interested in, were any of the boxes in the back what you were talking about?"

Anna beams at him and reaches down to grab a deep green box. "I think it's close," she says softly, opening it to show him.

He opens his mouth, soundless. The platinum band holds three diamonds, perfectly round and inset into the band. He can see it on Kate's finger, glinting in the sunlight—can feel himself rubbing over the stones, smooth edges meeting sharp angles. It's stunning; it's perfect.

"Can, can I engrave that?" he asks, and Anna laughs, nodding, delighted.

"Of course. We can have that done in a few days, and you could pick it up at the end of the week?"

"Perfect," he says gruffly.

"What's the inscription?" she asks, pulling out a piece of paper.

"Can it be done in my writing?" he wonders, reaching out for the pen as she nods. "Always," he adds as he takes care to write it—the way he might on a sticky-note left casually on her desk. Not formal. Just normal. Ordinary. Every day. Always.

"We'll have this done for you in two days, Mr. Castle," Anna says softly.

"Should I give a down payment?"

Anna smiles and shakes her head. "We'll do this one on merit."


	32. Chapter 32

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: This is narrative. The writers write scripts.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 32:<strong>

Laughter greets him as he opens the door to the loft. He traipses inside, a little tired, a little on edge, a little excited, and he laughs to himself as Lanie's voice rings through the first floor.

"You should have seen his face. It was wonderful."

"I'm so sad I missed it!"

"Missed what?" he asks, striding into the living room, where they're curled up on his couch, shoes on the floor and wine glasses in their hands. He can't help but grin; they could have easily gone back to her place, but she brought Lanie here, like it's already hers. Another woman, and it would have been suffocating, but Kate? Oh, she can have a bachelorette party here for all he cares.

"A clown getting the jump on Ryan at a scene," Lanie tells him, smiling back at him, easy and comfortable in his home. He's pretty sure she's only been here for one party, years ago.

"Damn," he lets out, stepping up to the back of the couch to lean down. He presses his lips to Kate's temple, pausing there as her hand comes up to brush his cheek.

"How was your day?" Kate asks as he straightens up, all too aware that Lanie looks like the cat that ate the canary.

"Good. Quiet," he decides. It was, kind of. He was quiet, at least. "Yours?"

"About the same," Kate offers easily.

"Did you buy something slinky and deadly?"

"Well, it's sleek," Lanie says as Kate whacks her leg. "But we struck out on dresses."

"That's too bad," he says. "But, you've got all the weekends from here to December to get one."

Kate nods lazily and points to the bottle. "Raided the cooler. Hope you don't mind."

He scoffs and reaches out to take a sip from her glass, grinning as his finger prints cover hers. "Ah, good choice."

She smiles. "Lanie picked."

He bows toward Lanie and chuckles as she dips her head in thanks. "Well enjoy," he tells them, handing Kate her glass. "I think we have ice cream, if it's that kind of girl party."

"You better hope there's no ice cream necessary," Lanie puts in as he walks toward his office, Kate's laughter ringing out behind him. "And where are you going?"

He spins around and catches Kate's smirk. "I, uh, figured this was a, um—when Alexis—writing. I should write. Edit."

He slips into his office as the girls laugh at him. They can laugh all they want, as long as they keep drinking his wine and sitting on his couch. He doesn't mind at all.

And when Kate crawls into his bed, snuggling in beside him, he doesn't care that she's waking him, or that it's late, or that she smells like wine and perfume. She nuzzles her head beneath his chin and kisses his neck, mumbling goodnight as she passes out on him. He smiles and tugs her closer, letting the rhythm of her breath against his neck lull him into sleep.

(…)

He finds her curled up in one of his armchairs the next morning. One of her socked feet dangles over the side, brushing against the carpet as she idly turns a page. She's swaddled in his red fleece blanket and he can see the bare curve of her shoulder peeking out where she's worked her arm out of the blanket to turn pages.

"Hi," she calls out softly, not bothering to turn and look at him.

He laughs and pads his way over, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he approaches her. It's not early, but 9am is definitely still morning, and for some reason, he hoped they'd sleep into the afternoon today. Yesterday tuckered him out, and all he really did was lie on the ground.

"Hi," he whispers, leaning down to press his lips to her temple. She smiles and leans back into him, her head brushing against his ribs as he stands there behind her. "Just reading?"

"Woke up at about six and couldn't fall back to sleep," she explains with a little shrug. "And you have a bonafied library, so I thought I'd take advantage."

"You're always welcome to take advantage," he tells the top of her head as she laughs. "What are you reading?"

She flips the cover back and he smiles into her hair. Pride and Prejudice—he approves. "We watched it on the plane and it's been years since I read it, you know?"

"Don't have to justify that one to me. I mean, if you're sad you do, because it's damn depressing for a while. But otherwise," he peters off as she rests her head on the back of the chair to look up at him, smiling.

"Glad you approve," she murmurs. "Why are you up?"

"Well, you are," he says, watching as she huffs at him. "And I don't know. We've been sleeping a lot. What time did you climb into bed last night?"

"Lanie left around one," she tells him. "Sorry for waking you."

He shakes his head and squeezes her shoulders. "Not a problem. Always up for a snuggle."

She laughs at him and closes her book, uncurling and stretching out her legs. "Breakfast?"

"Sure."

He watches as she climbs out of the chair, feline-like and lithe, before she saunters over and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth. "Morning," she offers by way of explanation.

"Morning," he gruffs out, steadying her as she sways on her tip toes, so short compared to him, so perfectly sized to wrap himself around her.

"You're sure you didn't mind have Lanie here?" she asks after a moment, pulling away to watch his response.

Mind? He wants her here, all the time—Kate that is. And with Kate comes Lanie and Esposito and Ryan and sometimes Jim. He wants that—wants her living with him, sharing their life together, friends and family and getting kicked out of his living room and all.

"Not at all," he tells her. "Feel free to invite the guys over too."

She considers him, a light blush flushing her neck and cheeks. "I—hm," she manages. "I'll remember that then."

He nods and then breaks away, leading her into his kitchen by the tips of his fingers, her smaller digits hooked behind her first knuckles. "Eggs, pancakes, muffins?" he wonders aloud, detaching from her to search his cabinets.

"Waffles," she decides, sliding onto one of the bar chairs. "But we could go out."

"Do you want to go out?" he asks, popping his head back out of the refrigerator to look at her, rumpled and soft at his kitchen island. She shrugs.

"It's laborious to make waffles."

"It's hot when you say laborious."

She laughs and shakes her head, reaching out to pluck a grape out of his fruit bowl. "So, Remy's?" she asks, waiting for his nod before she hops down and saunters away toward his bedroom.

"Remy's does waffles? How did I not know this?" he asks as he follows her, watching the swing of her hips and the smooth expanse of her uncovered legs. How did he miss that she's just wearing a pair of boy shorts and a tank top?

"Quit staring and get dressed," she says, not even turning back to look at him as she rummages in his dresser, in her drawers. "And I don't know how you missed the waffles. I've ordered them before."

"You have not," he argues, slipping off his sweats to slide into jeans. "I would remember that."

"I have so," she asserts, turning around once she's hooked on a new bra, standing there in skinny jeans and white lace. "Two summers ago I—"

They stare at each other, partially dressed with the bed between them. "Are they good?" he asks after a quiet, awkward minute. So she ate waffles over that summer when he didn't call. Big deal.

"Yeah," she mumbles. "Yeah, they are. Might be better than that brunch place Alexis took us."

He lets his jaw go, over doing it as he gapes at her. "Seriously?"

She rolls her eyes, seeing through his admittedly pathetic attempt joke them back on course. "Seriously."

"Seriously?" he asks again, walking toward her to find a shirt for himself.

"Seriously," she says, more laughter in her voice as she tosses him a dress shirt he left out last night. "I like that one," she adds as she slips into a tee shirt, watching as he buttons up the deep purple shirt.

She comes to stand in front of him, reaching out to fold his cuffs and straighten his collar, her hands soft and efficient. "I like you," he lets out, grateful and a little sleepy and constantly astounded by the fact that they've made it here—through summers and gunshots and doctor boyfriends. Made it to rings and girlfriends on the couch and wine.

She smiles and arches up to kiss his jaw. "Kind of like you too. Now come on, I'm starving."

He lets her guide him out of his room, watches as she grabs his keys and pockets them, like they're hers; he should give her an official key, one with a keychain or something, not just the one she has for emergencies.

"Taxi?" she asks as they ride down in his elevator.

He reaches out and catches her fingers, her smaller hand sliding into his, still bare ring finger glancing against his own. He really wants that ring, today.

"Taxi, Castle?" she prompts, and they're standing on the curb, in the sunlight. He should have slept more; he's totally off his game today.

"Huh yeah," he gives her, watching as she flags one down, care free and easy in her jeans and white tee shirt. God, she's beautiful.

"Jeez. Come on," she says, tugging him into the cab. "Are you okay?" she wonders as they sit there, waiting for their driver to pull into traffic.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "I'm fine."

"You're just a little," she pauses, considering him. "Slow, I guess."

He chuckles, stroking over the inside of her wrist. "Tired, I think."

"You should have slept more," she insists, catching his wandering hand as he trails down to her palm. "I can sleep at my place tonight if my getting up wakes you," she adds.

"No," he rushes out and she startles next to him. "No, I mean it's not—it's not you. I'm not sleeping well, home, I think."

"Because I'm there now, so it's different?"

He sighs and tugs on her hand until they can look each other in the eye, so she can see how much it definitely isn't her. He loves having her there—sleeps better beside her than he has in nearly a year, maybe more. He's just restless, anxious still, absorbing her light frenetic energy, or his own, maybe.

"It's not you. I've slept great with you everywhere. I—I write. I'm an insomniac. I go through phases. It's not you at all," he rushes out. She nods and shifts, her shoulder pressing into the crook of his as she looks out the window. "It's really not you," he repeats, hoping it sinks in.

"I know," she says, her voice low and soft.

"You okay?" he wonders.

"Yeah," she says easily. "I'm fine. Hungry."

"You're not sleeping much," he adds. "Five hours isn't enough."

"Well pot, I guess we're going to have to tire ourselves out or something." He watches her smirk, still looking out the window. But her fingers tangle with his and he decides to let it go—decides that life is still unstable, and that's enough, more than enough, to keep them both awake.

"We're here," she says, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Waffles," he mumbles, following her back out of the cab.

"And coffee," she says as they stumble up onto the curb. "Lots and lots of coffee."

(…)

The text comes as they're walking through Central Park. She's distracted by a family playing tag a few yards away, so he checks his phone and then nearly stumbles into her.

_It's ready, Mr. Castle_.

Ready. Ready. They have her ring ready a day early.

"Man, Castle," she laughs, steadying him as he struggles to shove his phone back into his pocket. "Are you sure you're okay?" She reaches up to touch his forehead and he blinks at her. "No fever."

He laughs, startled. "Thanks, Nurse Beckett." Checking his temperature—how utterly domestic. "Just clumsy."

"Yeah, I've noticed," she says, brushing her fingers against his jaw. "You good to walk? I need to check my mail, and it'll be a shorter cab ride from the other side of the park."

Check her mail. Okay, how can he make that work for him? He needs to—needs to—mailbox. He has a mailbox at Black Pawn. He could go 'check' that, right? Sure.

"You know, I should check my mailbox at Black Pawn," he says, and it sounds mechanical and stilted and so far from cool.

"O-kay," she says slowly, not really buying it, but not calling him out either. "Do you want to, uh, tag team this?"

"Yes!" Oh, he's done this before, he should have a better handle on himself. "I mean, yeah—don't want—paparazzi and all. You grab yours, I'll grab mine, and we'll meet back home?"

She blinks at him and he fights the urge to punch himself in the face. "Sure," she says slowly, a little suspicious but a little overwhelmed too. "Sure, meet you at home. Keys," she adds, extending his keys to him. "I've got yours on my ring."

Not yet she doesn't. But she will. Have a ring. And the key. On a different ring. Words, Rick. "Good. Okay, so, an hour or so?"

"Okay," she agrees. "You sure you're okay? Like, really. Food sitting well and everything?"

He nods and reaches out to tug her in, planting a sloppy kiss to her mouth. "You go, and I'll meet you."

She considers him for a moment and then steps back. "See you soon."

He smiles and watches her walk away, spending a good five minutes there, watching the empty path. A ring. He has a ring. He can—go get it. Go get the ring. He turns and jogs out of the park.

(…)

"Are you asleep?" he whispers, smiling as she laughs, too loud, too bright for the darkness of the room.

"Obviously not," she whispers back, squeezing his hand.

They're lying on their backs, staring up at his ceiling, rounds and rounds behind them, and still, they're awake. They stopped drinking coffee at five, had two glasses of wine each, and then had three rounds—three actual rounds—of really tiring sex, and still, he's staring at his ceiling.

"What the hell is wrong with us?" she wonders aloud. "I should be asleep. I'm exhausted."

"You should be asleep? After that, I should be completely passed out, nothing waking me, dead to the world."

She groans and turns her head to kiss his shoulder. "Yeah, you really should."

"That good?" he asks, laughing as she nips at his skin.

"Yeah, Rick. That good," she says, gliding her thumb up and down the side of his hand. "Can't really move."

"There's something wrong with us," he decides, grunting as he shifts onto his side to look at her. "We just took a big relaxing vacation." And he has a ring in his drawer, burning a hole in his mind, searching for a moment. No big deal.

"Yeah," she sighs. "And no cases. And no work. And no anything," she adds.

"Is that what's keeping you up?" he asks, releasing her hand to rest his on her stomach, feeling as she takes fluid deep breaths. He knows his reason, his excitement. But Kate—Kate should be asleep, relaxed, hair sprawling over the pillows, nose wrinkling.

She looks up at him, brow furrowed and he leans down to kiss the wrinkle there away, like maybe he can just kiss away the worry too. Would that it were so easy.

"Maybe," she whispers. "I don't know. You?"

He groans and leaves his lips against her skin. "It's not you." No, it's totally him, not her at all. "M'I gonna have to tattoo that somewhere?"

"What?" she lets out, laughing as his fingers dig into her stomach. "Castle!"

"It's not you," he repeats, tickling her as he moves his lips down her cheek and around to her ear, smiling into her skin as she writhes and laughs.

"Not—not getting me sleepy here," she gasps out. "Rick!"

He desists and rests his head on her shoulder as she pants and whacks feebly at his arm. "It's not you," he tells her shoulder.

"I believe you," she says. "You didn't have to tickle me."

He shrugs and presses his lips to her skin as she raises her arm to card through his hair. "Wanted to get the message across."

"Where would you put the tattoo?"

He laughs. "It's for you. Where do you want it?"

She hums and he rests there, his cheek against her shoulder, arm tossed across her stomach, his own personal Kate pillow. Oh, man he needs sleep.

"Left butt cheek," she decides, palming the back of his head as he laughs into her.

"Of course," he manages.

"Well, you don't really want the world seeing it, do you? You're going to make everyone think you're breaking up with them."

"No," he mumbles into her skin. "Never that."

"What, breaking up with the world?"

"Breaking up with you," he says and her hand stills in his hair.

"Good," she breathes out a few minutes later. He smiles and relaxes against her, her fingers lulling him to sleep as they drag across his scalp.

He feels her breathing evening out, her hand slowing in his hair. He tries to rouse himself, but his eyelids droop, his body plastered over hers. "You're comfy," he slurs out.

"Go to sleep," she tosses back, her fingers falling to rest on the base of his neck where her arm is curled around him.

"Not too heavy?" he mumbles. She simply rubs her thumb across the curve of his skull. "You comfortable?"

"Marry me," she sighs by way of response.

He smiles. "Ask me when you're awake," he mouths into her shoulder.

"Kay," she whispers. "Sleep."

He hopes she does. He hopes she sleeps and wakes up and asks him—asks him so he can ask her and put a ring on her finger.


	33. Chapter 33

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Should probably graduate first...**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 33:<strong>

She doesn't. She doesn't ask him. Not for days. There are "I love yous," and, "You're wonderfuls," and a few whispered "Good morning, handsomes," but no more "Marry mes."

He doesn't mind, really. But he can't seem to find a good moment. The way she looks as they walk down the street, the light glancing off her hair would work, but then a pigeon craps on her shoulder and it's just not right. And then the next time she steps in gum, like the world is just trying to bring her down, and his romantic fantasies along with her.

So he waits. And he plans. And he thinks about helicopters and boat rides and stars, but it all seems too much. It should be organic, and real, and he has to wait for it to come to him—the perfect moment.

He meets her at Dr. Burke's building, walks up to her hunched there against the red-stone wall, head bent to stare at her feet. She glances toward him as he approaches and he watches as she puts herself back together, piece by piece. Her shoulders rise, her back straightens, her hands uncurl and then she brings her face up to look at him, and she's miraculously whole, even though he knows she's been gutted.

"Hi," she says, reaching out to smooth her hand across the lapel of his coat, her fingers coming to rest against his neck. She's wearing a long black sweater that dwarfs her frame—something she usually reserves for nights in at his place.

"Hey," he murmurs, meeting her tired but startlingly clear eyes. "How are you?"

"Good," she tells him, a shadow of a smile on her face. "Tired, but it was—good. I'm good."

"I'm glad." He leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead; she's wearing flats today—probably always wears them for therapy, removing her daily armor.

"What have you been up to?" she wonders, pulling away to take his hand and step off down the street; there's a café around the block she likes to frequent.

They've gone a few times now, and he likes it—likes even more they way she sometimes touches more, lilts more, seems softer. There have been the days too when she's turned taciturn and cold, retreated into herself for hours before coming out to bicker and battle until they fall into his sheets. But today she's soft, and quiet, and thoughtful.

"Wandered a bit," he recounts, shrugging. "Oh, and got a call from Paula. You feel up to doing something tonight?"

She slides her gaze over to his and bobs her head, squeezing his hand. "Depends on the something."

He chuckles and yanks her into his side, slinging his arm over her shoulder against the breeze that whips up the street. "Well, I was thinking of taking you dancing."

"I could be persuaded," she says quickly, fingers digging into his hip. "Did Paula tell you to take me dancing?"

"No," he says, leaning into her. "But she did tell me that Black Pawn is holding an event at Providence NYC, kind of testing it out for your mother's benefit while doing some publicity work."

"Oh, wow," Kate lets out, as they pull to a halt outside of the little café. "That's—not just for me, right? It's Black Pawn's thing."

He laughs and nods, curling her into his chest so he can feather his lips over hers. "Totally self serving," he promises. "But they'd like it if I attended—"

"Big author star and all," she interjects, eyes sparkling, teasing but loving him at the same time.

"Well yeah," he agrees, grinning at her. "And I'd like it if you'd come. There'd be some chit chat, but it would be mostly dancing, cocktail dress. It'll be fun."

She considers him, sliding her hands up his chest to squeeze his shoulders. "I can think of worse ways to spend a Thursday night," she offers.

"You got a dress to wear?" he asks, rather than letting her tease him more.

Her smile grows and she arches up to press her lips to his in a deeper kiss, hinting, taunting, promising him things to come tonight. "You'll have to pick me up at my place."

"Or we could go get it now," he growls, gripping at her hips to drag her body into his.

"Romance me, then bed me, champ."

She slithers from his grip and disappears inside the café as he stands there, a little dumbstruck. Oh, she'll make this the best publicity dinner ever. He feels for the sleek ring case in his pocket, fingers over the blue velvet. Soon.

She looks out at him from their normal window booth and he kicks himself into gear as she smirks to herself. Yeah, she's got him. But he's going to get her too, forever, as soon as the universe decides to give him a moment.

(…)

"Oh dear, what has you all in a tizzy?" his mother asks as he makes another circuit around his office, ring box clutched in his hand, his tie undone around his neck.

"Mother," he exclaims, coming to a halt to look at her as she leans against the doorframe, smiling.

"What's in your hand?"

"I—uh," he stammers, swallowing once before remembering that he is, in fact, not six, and the last cookie is not what he's holding like a vice in his left hand.

He holds it up and Martha lets out a breath, a grin breaking over her face as she pushes off from the doorway and walks over to pluck the case from his sweating palm.

"Oh, Richard," she whispers as she opens it and stares at the ring he hopes to slide onto Kate's finger tonight. "It's gorgeous."

"Thank you," he mumbles, resisting the urge to scuff his feet and play with his fingers, suddenly shy.

"Alexis help you?"

"No," he says, grinning because Kate did. "But I did call her. She squealed. It was cute."

"Better than the last time you announced a plan to propose," his mother muses and he winces.

When he'd told Alexis that he was going to marry Gina, she had hugged him, and then run away so quickly that she'd knocked over a vase full of flowers. She then promptly burst into tears and he'd spent an hour comforting his daughter, who was definitely not upset with the broken vase. But that Castle—the one who liked Gina's order and domineering charm—had missed the point. He likes to think he gets child psychology a little more now. Only took him two ex wives, a grown up daughter, and a detective to get there.

"She really loves her," his mother adds.

"Kate loves Alexis, or Alexis loves Kate?" he asks as he does his tie.

"Both." He meets Martha's eyes. "I love her too."

"I'm glad," he says, walking over to kiss her cheek. "Last daughter you'll get."

"Only daughter," she corrects, patting his cheek. "Meredith was a terror, and Gina's a delightful acquaintance, but Kate, Kate could be a daughter."

"Will be," he corrects. "Come on. I know we've done this before, but pump me up, don't—"

"Oh, honey," she says, laughing and batting his hands away to straighten his tie. "You're gonna be great."

He hopes she's right. But she is. She is. He's going to nail this—her—crap. He's going to get the love of his life to marry him, to agree to marry him, to—

"Get outta here kiddo, and don't come back 'till you have a promised ball and chain."

He laughs and squeezes his mother's hand before grabbing his wallet, keys, and phone. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and walks out of the apartment.

(…)

"Oh. Oh, wow. That's—uh, wow."

"That good, huh?" she asks, spinning for him, eyes sparkling.

That dress, oh, that dress. Deep purple and strapless, the satiny-fabric fits in to her waist, wrapped in a black-lace sash. It falls in a gentle flare to her knees, and then her legs go on for miles. She's actually taken his breath away, and he sucks it back in as she slows to a stop, watching him, her eyes crinkling as she reaches out to slide her hands up his chest.

"You look pretty great yourself," she hums, tilting her head up to press their lips together while he manages to move his arms to her waist. She's nearly his height tonight, in four-inch purple and black-lace pumps, and he smiles against her mouth, gliding his hands along the delicate lace at her waist.

"Where did you find this?" he wonders, pulling back to run his hands up her sides.

"We may have found a few dresses," she concedes.

"With Lanie?"

"She's oddly persuasive."

"Oh, I know," he says, clamping his lips shut as she peers at him. "For you. With you. So, dancing?"

"Sure," she says slowly, patting his chest absently. "Lemme grab my coat."

"Oh, but—"

"It's 40 degrees outside, Castle. You can ogle later."

"Can ogle you in the coat too," he mumbles as she holds out her coat for him to help her into.

It's the white one she rarely wears that makes her eyes pop. He can certainly ogle her in this. She slips her arms into the sleeves and he gently turns her to help her do up her buttons. She shoos his hands away, laughing, and manages just fine without him.

"You're better at getting me out than in," she tells him as she straightens herself out and reaches for his hand.

He scoffs and closes the door behind them, testing the knob to make sure it's locked. She's not coming back tonight. Maybe she's not coming back this week, this month, ever. She bumps his shoulder to get him moving and he guides her over to her elevator, the ring box snug against his side deep in his suit jacket, in that little pocket they must make for such occasions.

"You okay?" she asks as they stand in the elevator.

"Yeah," he says, miffed.

"You're just a little tense. Do you have to make a speech or something?"

He blinks at her, there in the pretty white coat with her sparkling eyes. Now would be a bad moment, right? Elevator is too fleeting, too ephemeral, too blah for this.

"I'm fine. No speech. Just antsy," he decides. It's completely the truth, but she can assume it's for the party, not for a proposal he has no idea how to make.

She hums and strokes her thumb along the back of his palm, and as crazy as it is, he relaxes. She smiles as the tension leaves his shoulders, and then he's listening to an elaborate story from the Precinct that Lanie must have told her earlier in the afternoon. It seems they're talking more now, getting closer. He's glad. He likes Lanie, and he knows she's the best friend his girlfriend could ever have.

He thinks over the past year, over the strain the shooting and resulting fallout put on everyone, on all of their relationships. He and the boys grew stronger, but he watched as Lanie and Kate struggled to reform their friendship after that long summer. How lonely it must have been to not even have her best friend to talk to—how hurt Lanie must have been by the loss of her friend. He forgets sometimes that this struggle encompassed more than his life, than Kate's life.

"And then Ryan flailed around to get it out of his shirt and Gates came out and he hit her in the nose!" Kate finishes, laughing through the words.

"Oh, God," he gasps, leaning into her in the town car. "Is she furious?"

"To hear Esposito tell it, she laughed," Kate says, eyes wide to meet his surprised expression. "I know!"

"She—she laughed?" He can't see it, can't see their hard-as-nails Captain laughing after getting socked in the nose.

"Well, Lanie says it was a little bit of shock too; getting slammed there hurts like hell. But apparently there were no negative repercussions. I mean, how could you blame him for that? Lanie says they have the rest of today off so they can fumigate the building."

He groans in displeasure for missing such a spectacular feat. "Man. When we're not there, all hell breaks loose."

"You're telling me," Kate says, slumping back with him. "Then again, you hate beetles."

"I do," he agrees, opening his eyes and turning his head against the seat to look at her. "Still."

She laughs and watches him. The play of light over her face is magnetic, and he finds himself leaning over to kiss her, hand steadying himself on her other side so he's held above her, completely unsafe but utterly necessary.

"Sit down," she whispers against his lips, shoving on his shoulder. "I may not have my badge, but it's against the law to not wear a seat belt."

"Says the woman who went 100 on the Thruway when we drove up to White Plains."

"I used the gumball," she argues as he settles back beside her, neither of them wearing a seat belt.

"Yeah, 'cause that makes it safer."

"Hey, I'm a cop. I get to break some of the rules," she defends, but he hears something there, something fragile and maybe a little insecure.

"That you are," he agrees, reaching over to rub his thumb over her bare knee, the bottom of her dress gliding along the back of his palm.

She searches his eyes for a moment and then nods. "So stay put."

He crosses his hand over his heart, giving her his best innocent face, and she presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. He wants her to enjoy tonight, to get lost in a little lavish partying—to get lost in him. No more doubts or worries or talk of a Precinct they're avoiding. But before he can find a joke to make her laugh, they're pulling up at Providence NYC, and he's guiding her inside, smiling for the one camera man at the door.

They check her coat and then wander through one of the side hallways that surround the center of the space.

"Oh, Castle," she breathes out, her hand squeezing his as they stand at the edge of the main room. "It's gorgeous."

He squeezes back, nodding as they take in the two story center room with the hanging chandeliers and glowing lamps that cast the deep red walls in a yellow glow. There's a band up on a stage at the front of the room, playing soft jazz he knows will turn into swing music in about an hour.

Tables with deep red table cloths scatter the room as people mill about. Waiters duck in and out of the crowd with plates of hors d'oeuvres, and he sees a few tables set up on the far side of the room along the opposite hall, filled with books. Perhaps they're scouting new talent or presenting new talent. He should have paid more attention to that phone call.

"So what now?" Kate asks.

He opens his mouth to reply but Paula appears in front of them, grinning and looking them over. "You look perfect," she crows, reaching out to straighten his tie. "Now, Conrad's here, and we're trying to talk him up, so I'll need you for that, and there's a reporter from the Ledger who would like words with both of you. Hello, I'm Paula, by the way. I don't think we've been formally introduced," she finishes, reaching out to shake Kate's hand.

"Kate Beckett," Kate says easily, all cool and collected, though he can tell by her posture that she's out of her element.

"Of course you are. Ricky never shuts up about you. You're good for an interview?"

"I—guess," Kate says slowly, glancing up at him.

"Nothing big," Paula assures her. "More for the nerds and bookish types of New York, hardly front cover. Now, come on."

She takes his free arm and steers them across the room. He spots Alex Conrad, cornered by Gina and a few of the other publishers. The poor kid looks a little lost and more than intimidated. He can relate. Gina, Amy, and Aiden are always too much when left together and to their own devices.

"Sorry," he whispers, bending down to Kate's ear as Paula hurries them through the room.

Kate smiles and shakes her head. "I've brought you to worse."

He laughs and wraps his arm around her shoulders as they reach the group. Conrad gives them a grateful grin when Paula breaks off to confer with Gina. His ex-wife barely gives him a glance and lets his agent pull her away. He feels Kate deflate a little beneath his arm and bumps her gently with his hip. She glances up at him as the rest of the publishers disperse and he leans down to briefly catch her lips.

"Seems you two have gotten yourselves together," Conrad says, breaking them apart.

Kate blushes but Castle merely laughs. "Indeed. How are you?"

They shake hands and Conrad grins. "Well, I've gotten my second book done. Gina's just finishing going over it."

"She is one of the best," he admits. "A little intense."

"She wants your edits," Conrad tells him, smiling as Kate stifles a laugh. "I've been hearing about it. You almost done?"

"Hey now. Don't hassle me, kid," Castle rebuffs, but sighs and laughs along with both of them. "Soon. Nearly there."

"He actually is," Kate interjects. "What, twenty more pages or so?"

"See?" Castle says triumphantly. "Nearly there. And don't let her hassle you about me. You are in no way responsible for my career."

Conrad grins and looks them over. "How have things been?"

Kate reaches her arm around Castle's back, pulling herself against his side. "Hectic."

"I heard about—I'm sorry," Conrad says awkwardly. "It sounded brutal."

"A bit," Kate admits. "But things are quieting down."

"Took a vacation to Canada," Castle throws in. "It was great."

Conrad nods and shifts on his feet. "That sounds great. I—I'm glad everything is all right. I thought a lot about it, the both of you, but didn't know if I—"

"Thank you," Kate puts in, saving him. "We appreciate it."

"Ryan and Esposito told me a little," he admits.

"I bet they'd love to have you along some time soon," Kate says easily. "We've been out of the Precinct for a while, and they're probably dying for some writerly input."

"Maybe you can help them catch beetles," Castle adds. He prides himself on some personal growth—no longer feels even the slightest sting of jealousy at the idea of Conrad being in his Precinct. How can he when he's got Kate wrapped around him, leaning into him, uncaring about the people in the room or the claim they're both staking.

"Um, maybe I'll wait a bit then," Conrad says quickly. "I'm—yeah."

Kate laughs. "Probably a good idea. Oh, Gates. Do you think—"

"She will like him much more than she likes me," Castle tells her. "Come on."

Kate giggles and squeezes his hip. "She doesn't hate you."

"Doesn't love me either," he grouses.

"Gates?" Conrad asks.

"Oh. Last year—last year Captain Montgomery passed away," Kate says softly.

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." She gives him a sad smile. "But Gates is our new Captain. She's not nearly as, hm, open to the concept of Civilian Consultants."

"Honorary badge, I'm telling you," Castle interrupts. "You know Bob would give me—"

"And Gates would take it away before you ever got to use it," Kate says before he's even finished. "And you still wouldn't have a gun."

He sighs and glances back at Conrad, who's watching them with interest. "She's no fun."

"Your funeral, man," he says, holding up his hands as Kate pinches his side. "But I see the reporter coming and Gina is glaring at me. I think I'm supposed to be meeting more people."

"It was good to see you," Kate puts in as they all shake hands again. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Conrad says with a small smile. "And Castle, I'll call you?"

"Sounds good."

With a nod, he steps off and they watch as he swerves his way across the room, ducking around clumps of people to join Gina by the bar.

"So, this interview," Kate says softly, jutting her chin toward the man with the pad who is slowly making his way over to them. "Anything off limits?"

"Isn't that my line?" he wonders.

"Steer as clear from my mom as possible?"

"Would be my only one, really," he agrees. "Maybe do damage control of that coverage too?"

She nods and steps back from him so her hands are free as the reporter reaches them. He feels the loss of her keenly, but it's for the best. Their physical gestures could end up in the article just as easily as their words, and he doesn't want, "Richard Castle Cozies Up to Muse," in the papers any more than he wants, "Castle and Heat Battle Real-Life Demons," as a headline.

"Mister Castle," the man says, extending his hand, "I'm Jack Fleisher, reporter for the Ledger."

Castle smiles and takes the man's hand, appreciating the pen behind his ear, the casual suit jacket, the look of a life of reporting. The man has a sharp jaw, short blond hair, and if Castle didn't actually see himself and Kate as Rook and Nikki, Jameson might look a bit like Jack Fleisher.

"Pleasure to meet you," Castle says, shaking once before they drop hands. "This is Kate Beckett."

"Nice to meet you," she says, taking Fleisher's hand as well. "I've read a few of your pieces. They're wonderful."

His literate, nerdy, gorgeous girlfriend—she just knows too much, everything, surprising things. He should start paying attention to what she reads in the paper.

"That's—well, thank you, Miss Beckett," Fleisher says, and he can tell that the man, is flattered. "I've followed some of your coverage as well."

Kate smiles, but Castle sees her tensing, waiting. "Well thank you."

"That zombies case sounded really interesting."

Kate relaxes and Castle nods enthusiastically, breaking into the story to entertain Fleisher. Kate interjects every so often, laughing, correcting him, embellishing along with him until Fleisher looks like the two of them are superheroes. It's fun, and Castle can't believe Kate is playing along.

She grabs a bite-sized bruchetta as a tray passes and shrugs at them. "He didn't feed me before we came."

"I told you there wouldn't be real food," he protests sheepishly.

"Is it safe to assume that the two of you have become an item since your last appearance together?" Fleisher asks, timid but bold at once.

Kate glances up at Castle and he looks back, giving her the choice. It's her life, and she has the right to their privacy if she wants it. He'd gladly shout it from the roof tops. Well, maybe not. Then she'd be a target. He finds himself stunned, battling in his head when Kate opens her mouth.

"We are," Kate admits. "We haven't been announcing it to the world, but yes."

Fleisher nods, and Castle can see the spark, a story forming in this man's head, officially breaking that news to the world. "It's been—I've seen hints. I'm glad. You seem like a good match."

"Disturbingly so, sometimes," Kate says, laughing as Castle gasps, mock affronted.

"She's right," he agrees. "Our partners, Ryan and Esposito—Rayleigh and Ochoa as it were—are often a little disturbed by it."

"Because we build theory so well," Kate interjects. "Honestly, Castle."

Well he hadn't been thinking that was dirty at all. "Same wavelength."

So there's going to be a section about them being disturbing. Okay. That's his fault. He'll take the hit for it. Might actually take a hit too with the look she's giving him. But there's amusement there too—like maybe she doesn't really care? There's a thought, a shocking amazing thought.

Fleisher chuckles and jots down a few notes. "Do you think any of this change will affect your books, the characters?" he asks, and Castle relaxes. He's a good guy—wants the right story, the connection to the writing, not just the gossip.

"Somewhat," he offers. "But Nikki and Rook have been way ahead of us in that department. This is recent," he adds, looking at Kate, who nods, eyes soft. "But probably. More time with my muse and all, so I'm sure little things will change."

"What did I say about calling me that?" she asks, but there's no bite there.

"Only do it when it can be put in print?" he tosses back while Fleisher laughs.

"Sorry, Miss Beckett, but that will probably make it in there," Fleisher tells them.

"Sorry to her? Sorry to me. I'm the one who'll get it for that."

Fleisher opens his mouth but spots Paula, who gives him a wave. "Well, I'm being summoned. Doing the circuit for this, you see."

"Understandable. Hit up Conrad. I'm sure he's got some good stuff for you," Castle suggests.

"Will do. Thank you for your time, Mister Castle, Miss Beckett."

"Have a nice evening," Kate says as he turns and leaves them alone at the edge of the dance floor. "Muse?"

"Oh, come now," he says quickly, barely giving her a moment before he tugs her onto the dance floor. A few other couples as dancing to the mellow music and he presses a kiss to her cheek as she huffs at him, making no effort to escape. In fact, she leans against him, soft and pliable, and he marvels in this—in this woman who once threatened to break his legs, and still could, but chooses not to, because she loves him.

"Didn't seem too bad," she admits as they twirl slowly around, his palm wide over the small of her back, her free hand toying with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

"I think we'll be good. Quiet reveal."

"Will Paula kill you for not using it to your advantage?" she wonders.

He chuckles, their cheeks pressed together. "I'd say this is definitely to my advantage. It'll be out there, and usable, but not page six material. And I get to do this," he continues, pulling back to find her lips. "It's not like we haven't been seen together."

"But we haven't given a statement," she murmurs.

"I couldn't care less about the publicity," he tells her, meeting her eyes. "And Paula will use it however she wants to use it."

Kate smiles. "You're good at this," she says softly.

"Thanks?"

She laughs. "No, I mean—I don't, I haven't seen you do this in a while. You're very charming."

He smiles. "You're not too bad yourself. Very witty. Very becoming. Beautiful."

She shakes her head and squeezes the back of his neck. "Have to keep up," she offers.

"Keep up? You're so beyond the bar that you've created a new one two floors up."

"And you're hyperbolic," she says, pressing closer.

"Kate, why do you think everyone's staring? It's not me."

"People aren't staring," she argues. Oh, they are, she just doesn't notice—never notices. "Well, except you."

"I'm allowed to stare," he says happily. "All I want. Whenever I want."

"Yeah, you need to stare a little less the next time we see Lanie. She would not shut up about it today."

"It's not my fault you're so magnetic," he grunts, leaning forward to catch her lips again. "Not my fault."

She follows him as he tries to pull away, lips ghosting against his. "Not my fault," she repeats, tugging him back to her, her teeth coming out to nip at his bottom lip. "Make a good team," she whispers as she releases him and the music picks up.

The clarinet croons out "I've Got You Under My Skin," as they sway together and he stares into her eyes, words tripping up his throat, bleeding out of his eyes, his ears, stuck behind his tongue. All the things, the eloquent, lovely, romantic words he wants—they don't come. Just the beat of his heart against his ribs and the feel of her in his arms swirls in his head and he opens his mouth, letting it out, the little he can.

"Marry me."

She blinks and stares at him, a smile on her lips. Her eyes grow wide as he releases her hand to reach into his jacket, pulling out the little blue box, even as his other hand stays firmly planted on her back.

"Marry me," he repeats, bending to rest his forehead against hers as she looks down at the box pressed between their bodies.

With shaking hands she slides her arms down his body to take the box from him and he wraps both arms around her, cocooning them and the ring and this huge moment that should be written in sky writing with neon lights, but falls really to her inside his arms, mouth open as she stares at the ring.

"Castle," she breathes out, her index finger running along the row of diamonds. "I—"

"Marry me," he says, his voice rough and shaking.

She looks up at him and brings a hand up to stroke his cheek, smiling as he swallows, waiting, hoping, desperate and foolish and in love.

"Yes."

She leans up and presses her lips to his. They manage a deep kiss before their smiles break them apart, quiet giddy laughter bubbling up. He moves his lips across her face, to her cheeks, her nose, her eye lids, squeezing her before taking the smallest step back to retrieve the ring from its case.

He pockets the blue-velvet box and takes her left hand, sliding the ring along her fourth finger, both of their hands trembling. He looks up and meets her eyes, beaming. She squeezes his hand and then reaches up to cup his cheeks, bringing their mouths back together.

"Yes," she whispers as they pull apart, foreheads together, her hands, her finger, her ring still against his cheeks, gentle and soft and smooth. He presses another kiss to her lips, unable to stay away from his fiancee, his future wife, his Beckett.

A flash goes off as she sighs against his lips.

So maybe they will make page six after all.


	34. Chapter 34

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I haven't even met Nathan Fillion.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 34:<strong>

"I think Paula's ready to strangle you," she whispers against his cheek as they sway, still pressed together, unable to move even a foot apart.

"She staring?"

"Castle, everyone is staring."

"Let 'em," he says, turning to press his lips to her cheek. "I don't care."

She smiles and squeezes his hand. "I don't either, but I think our moment's up."

"No," he beseeches. "No, can't you cop glare them off?"

Kate laughs and smooths her hand over the back of his neck, the cool glide of her ring making him shiver. "Sorry. Can't."

"Can't?"

"Look, I'm a little—" she trails off and he feels her turning her face into his, ducking into his neck.

"A little?" he prompts.

"Smitten, okay?"

"Smitten?" he repeats, grinning and twirling them once. "Really?"

"Shut up," she mumbles into his jaw.

"Smitten. Smitten. I've made you smitten," he says, rolling it on his tongue, unable to keep the smug, satisfied, elated feeling from creeping into his chest.

"Seriously. You're going to tease me not ten minutes after putting a ring on my finger," she says, and it's not a question.

He laughs and rubs his thumb along her waist, tugging her closer. "And you're stuck with me forever."

She huffs but he feels her smile against his throat, lets out an exhale as she drags her teeth gently along his skin. "Kinda already knew that."

He can't help but trail along her forehead, his lips pressing against her skin until she lifts her head so he can find her lips. Forever. He loves the sound of it, the idea that he gets this forever—gets to hold her, and dance with her, and love her, for ever.

"Can we leave?" he asks a few minutes later, with her nose pressing against his jaw, fingers strong and soft in his.

"It's your party," she says, laughing, her breath against his skin.

"Then let's get out of here."

He pulls away from her with regret, glancing at Paula. The woman purses her lips but nods toward the door, releasing him. He grins and guides Kate out of the main room, her body crowding and bumping into his. They're both smiling, too wide, too excited, too _smitten_, but it hardly matters. He waits, bouncing on his toes as she uses the bathroom and retrieves her coat.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he looks down, shaking his head:

_Have your night, but you better damn call me first thing to figure out how to handle this._

If the night goes the way he wants it to, he'll be calling her good and late tomorrow, and Paula will just have to deal with it.

"Ready?" Kate asks, her small hand gliding into his, ring hard and smooth against his bare left hand.

He simply grins and tugs her outside into the chill October air. "Home?" he asks as she crowds closer, waiting for the car to pull around for them.

She hums her consent, stroking her free hand up and down his arm, somehow sensual through his jacket and shirt. He bends and presses his lips to her forehead, searching until she arches up to meet his mouth, there on the street as his town car pulls up for them. She drags him inside, laughing as he stumbles, too entranced to give a damn about his feet.

He's still unstable when they pull away from the curb, and he falls onto her, legs tangling up with hers as she tries to get her breath back. "Jeez," she huffs, pushing on him to help him sit up. "Smooth moves, Romeo."

"Hey now," he protests, finally righted in his seat so he can put his arm around her and bring his lips a hair's breath from hers. "Thought I did a pretty good job."

She smiles and leans forward, pressing their lips together, her tongue darting out to part the seam of his mouth, suddenly hot and a little wild. Her hands slide around to his neck, pulling him closer, their bodies at odd angles, crashing together.

She pushes his jacket off as he fiddles with the buttons on hers, trying to keep them both upright and on the seat while still undressing her. His jacket falls to the seat behind him and she moves her hands to help him shimmy her out of hers. Then her hands are back at his face and she's leaning back, tugging him with her until they're not upright anymore.

"Not safe," he manages as he breaks away from her mouth to trail lower, across the pale, smooth curve of her throat.

Her hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt in response and he chuckles against the line of her collar bone. Her hands work quickly and suddenly he's not laughing anymore. She gasps as he laves along her pulse, her hands trailing fire across his chest under his shirt.

"God, I love you," he mumbles into her skin, releasing her side with one hand to reach for the door handle as they make a turn, resisting as they nearly tumble off the banked seat.

She guides his face back to meet her eyes, grinning at him. "Good reflexes," she whispers, leaning up to press her lips to his nose.

"Be pretty sad if we didn't make it to the alter because we fell in the car," he says as he cautiously releases the handle and braces himself again on the seat.

She nods and brushes her fingers along his temple, some of their heat replaced with a surge of affection that has him scooping her up and sitting back to wrap her in his arms—a bear hug more suited to a night by the fire than a tryst in his town car.

She laughs into his throat as he tugs her legs over his, his lips at the crown of her head as she toys with the shoulder of his dress shirt, her arm around his neck. He watches as she extends her left hand, catching the passing light on her diamonds. Her breath is warm against his skin and he smiles as she lets out a contented sigh, almost too quiet to hear.

He opens his mouth to let words pour out, but the car comes to a halt and she slides from his lap, gliding out to extend her hand back to him. He grabs their jackets and follows the swing of her hips as she guides him into his building, hair a little the worse for wear, fingers supple in his, her hips moving so too much.

"Evening, Mr. Castle, Miss Beckett," Eduardo says, eyeing them as they hurry through the doorway.

"Evening, Eduardo," Castle says, grinning at the man. "Heads up, there might be some pap tomorrow."

"We'll take care of it," he says, all smiles—a little proud, even.

"Thank you," Kate adds as she pulls gently on his hand. Right, he can worry about the paparazzi tomorrow.

They hustle themselves over to the elevator, standing there with their sides plastered together. She taps her foot and he bites back a smile as the doors open, letting her haul him inside. He's not prepared for the way she pounces, and he stumbles back until they hit the wall, the bar digging into his back as the doors click closed.

Her fingers glide back under his shirt, rucking up his undershirt to skirt along his skin as she claims his mouth for hers. She's all heat and strength and sexy and he's suddenly glad he's got the bar behind him, or he might slide down the wall, bringing her with him.

She growls when the doors ding open on their floor. He laughs against her lips and she pulls back to glare at him, eyes hooded and stormy. But her lips twitch, and he grins wider, leading her out of the elevator as she starts to laugh. They stumble to his door together, laughing and clutching at each other.

She gets her keys out first and opens the loft, shooing him inside with her sparkling left hand. The door slams behind her and they stare at each other.

His mother must have left for the evening, because the loft is dim and quiet, with shadows falling across the floor. The fire is going in the fire place, and the light flickers out at them as he watches her lock the door and drop her keys on the mantle beside her.

"Does Alexis know?" she asks after a moment, and he feels his face go slack. "What?"

He steps forward to pull her back to him, pressing a hot kiss against her lips as they sway there in the foyer of his loft. Thinking about his kid now—extraordinary woman. "Told her about the ring, but didn't tell her it would be tonight," he mumbles as they pull apart and he rests his forehead against hers.

"Should—do you need to—I don't know," she concludes as he skims his lips along the line of her throat.

He chuckles. "Don't know what?"

"Kid protocol," she lets out, a hand fisted in his hair.

"We'll have brunch with her tomorrow," he says, dragging his hand along her side. "But no more talking 'bout my kid."

"Trying—trying to be considerate," she mumbles as he starts shuffling them back toward his room, their room.

He sucks on her pulse point in response and she lets out a squeak as her knees buckle. He laughs and she growls at him, bracing her hands on his shoulders. She hops once and he stumbles, barely keeping his balance as he catches her. She clambers up his body, legs wrapping around his hips, her dress scrunched up between them. He swears as her lips find his throat, and then she's laughing as he clumsily gets them into his room.

He drops her on the bed and she laughs as she bounces, kicking off her heels. He shucks his dress shirt and falls onto her, rolling them around as they laugh, smacking kisses and clumsily unbuttoning and unzipping. They nearly fall off the bed as he tries to slide her dress off, and his pants end up in a tangled mess, but it hardly matters.

And later when she's draped over his chest, her sweaty forehead pressed into his throat, he looks down at her left hand and grins; she'll never be fully naked again. And that's exactly how he wants it, how he loves it.

"S'pretty," she whispers, her lips ghosting over his skin.

"You like it?"

"I love it," she promises, stroking her thumb over the band as her hand rests on his chest. "Where'd you find it?"

He stares up at the ceiling, debating. He could fib a little, save the surprise for later, or he could tell her now, make her laugh in the quiet of his—their—dark bedroom.

"There's a shop on 85th street," he begins, waiting until she sucks in a breath. "I got it there about a week ago."

"That's—she—you were there!" she exclaims, and her ringed hand slaps at his pecks as he laughs. "Oh, I can't believe this! Lanie went along with it?"

"Lanie had no idea," he says quickly. "You just showed up and I was stuck behind that counter for half an hour."

"That sales girl," she says after a moment. "She—this explains so much," she adds, laughing. "I can't believe you guys."

"Hey, we honestly didn't plan it," he assures her, bending to press his lips to her head as she relaxes against him again. "I just kept striking out, and then you guys came in and it just clicked."

She hums and raises her hand to admire her ring again. "I didn't see this one."

"Anna had just brought it out when you guys came in," he tells her, using his free hand to tangle with hers, letting his fingers toy with her ring, his wrist brushing hers.

"So my anniversary gift is no longer a surprise," she muses, squeezing his hand.

He laughs. "Wasn't expecting anything anyway." She huffs and runs her toes up his calf. "Okay, so I was expecting a little something," he concedes as she laughs into his throat. "But nothing more."

"We'll see," she says, shifting against him. Their bodies squeak and she giggles into his chest, sated and silly.

"Kind of thought this counted," he admits, bringing their hands back to his chest as he rubs circles against her bare back.

"If this is your present, what's mine?" she asks, grinning as he gasps.

"This doesn't count?" he lets out, all mock offense and scandal as he twirls the ring around her finger.

"Well, it can't be my present and your present," she explains patiently.

He growls and flips them suddenly, meeting her eyes as she laughs up at him, beautiful and disheveled and betrothed. "How about the whole walk-in?" he suggests after a moment, tentative and bold at once.

"The whole—" Her eyes widen and her fingers tighten at the back of his neck, her other hand sliding down his arm. "But where will your suits go?" she asks, a little breathless, happy.

"I have a second closet," he whispers conspiratorially.

She laughs softly and glides her hand up to cup his cheek. "Moving awfully fast, isn't it?" she teases as he grunts and shifts his hips against hers, making her laugh.

"Sure, the walk-in is fast, but the ring isn't," he huffs, his forehead pressed to hers.

"Well, I didn't know what the timeline was on the ring," she says, shrugging as she rubs her thumb along his jaw.

"No rush," he decides, glancing his lips against hers.

"Then why now?" she wonders, curling her leg around his hips, bringing him closer, just closer, with no intent, no arousal, no hurry.

"I like the sparkle," he says, grinning as she giggles again.

She smiles, the lines of her face soft and relaxed, beautiful. "No rush," she agrees. "But I want the walk-in."

"Then your present is boxes. Lots and lots of boxes," he decides. "Expect them in two days."

"And in three you get to haul them across town," she says, smirking.

"Oh, that's what movers are for," he dismisses.

"We don't have to hire movers," she protests, toying with the hairs on the nape of his neck. "We could easily do it ourselves."

"We'll be doing all of the packing, and unpacking, and arranging together. Trust me, the movers will be a blessing."

"I moved into that apartment on my own," she argues, pulling back from him so she can meet his eyes dead on.

"You don't have to move in here on your own," he tells her, watching as her eyes widen a fraction and she sucks on her bottom lip.

She nods after a moment and leans up to press her lips to his, bringing both hands to settle on his neck, warm and right as she pulls back to smile at him. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes," she says, grinning as he feels his own face lighting up. God, he loves that word. "Yes, you can hire movers to haul all my crap here so I can clutter up your apartment."

"Our apartment," he corrects, beaming at her.

She laughs. "So I can clutter up our apartment. Really, where are we putting everything?"

"Let's decide tomorrow," he says, bending to feather his lips over her jaw. "More celebrating now, 'cause you're gonna marry me."

She smiles and threads her fingers into his hair as he laves at her skin. "Love you, you know," she says by way of response, cradling him against her, arms around his back, legs around his hips, a cocoon of Kate.

He pulls back to meet her eyes, his own crinkling in happiness as he smiles. "I do."

She grins and yanks him in for a fiery kiss.


	35. Chapter 35

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I've driven someone to the airport now...**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 35:<strong>

The city traffic sounds like music. The sunlight in his face is the glow of a summer day. The distant car alarm is the beep, beep, beep of his heart. The world is a frickin' rainbow and he just can't stop grinning. He can't.

His fiancée—_fiancée_—is splayed across his chest, her breath fanning a little too hot over his shoulder, mouth open against his skin, fingers curled under his side. She's a heated blanket, but he doesn't care. He folds his arms behind his head and stares at the ceiling, so content, so blissfully besotted and excited and overwhelmed that he can't even think about moving—can't even consider moving to wake the beauty on his chest for more celebration.

Then again.

"Kate."

She shifts, burrowing into him, the tips of her toes brushing his as she cuddles closer.

"Kate," he murmurs, bringing an arm down to card through her hair.

"Sleeping," she mumbles and presses her face into the meat of his shoulder, as if she can simply escape the voice that comes with her human pillow.

"Ka-ate," he sing-songs, scratching at her scalp.

"Shut up, Castle," she grumbles.

He feels her start to roll away, so he shifts and traps her against his chest, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand spread across the back of her ribs. He squeezes and she wilts against him, eye lashes fluttering in the morning light of their bedroom. Their bedroom. It's their bedroom, officially.

"Why?" she moans softly, blinking at him as he looks down at her.

"Well, good morning to you too," he says, smiling as she huffs out a breath and shifts under his arms.

She presses back against his grip and he holds firm, watching as she sighs and then sags into him. She said something once about resistance—that the pressure felt good, somehow relaxing. He doesn't know if she realizes that he squeezes her sometimes when she's keyed up; she does it to him too, presses back against him, gives him her weight when he's nervous or out of it.

And sometimes, it just makes her comfortable, like they're banking hugs, making up for all the lost contact of four careful years behind them.

"S'barely morning," she says, yawning. "I was sleeping."

"I know," he tells her, laughing a little. "You're cute when you sleep."

"No," she sighs. "I was sleeping—sleeping well, really well."

"Must be all the sex," he lets out, shifting so he can toy with her new ring.

"Did you wake me up for sex?" she lets out, and he hears indignation in there, mingled with exhaustion, and what he's going to consider tired interest. Might just be more indignation, or irritation. But he's going with interest. It's best for him.

He stays silent, because that's probably best for him too, and she grunts against his skin. Ah well. Just irritation.

"If you're going to wake me from the first good sleep I've had in days, at least get me riled up first so I'm not mad at you," she says, her words heavy and indignant, but there is affection there too, he hears it now.

"So I should ravish you in your sleep, and wake you up for the good stuff?" he wonders, as he props another pillow under his head so he can look down at her.

"Yes," she tells his chest. "Now let me sleep."

"Kate," he whines, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss the knuckle just above her ring. "You're already awake."

She simply breathes against him, like she's actually planning on going back to sleep. So not acceptable.

He glides his lips up her finger before laving it with his tongue, turning her hand in his to trail his lips along her palm, nipping at her thumb, sucking on her pulse. She shifts against him, a little closer, and heaves a sigh, like a big sleeping breath. Yeah, sure, Kate. Go ahead.

He gently turns them so she's pressed against the mattress, her arm still high on his ribs as he lies next to her, studying her slack face. She's got a really good poker face. Or she's—no, she doesn't fall asleep that fast.

He runs his fingers lightly down her arm, along her side, tripping over her sensitive skin. He gets an inhale for that. He smirks and strokes along her bottom rib, across that little spot that always earns him points. Another inhale, stronger, more controlled.

Spurred onward, he flattens his hand over her scar and leans forward to press his lips to her forehead in a moment of tenderness that has her relaxing further into the mattress. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was adding to dreams, soothing unconscious fears. Instead, he's just keeping her on her toes, and giving himself the moment to revel in the fact that they're here, playing chicken with her sleeping habits, gloriously naked and engaged. Engaged.

He lets his hand wander along her body as he snuggles closer so he can bend his head to trail his lips along her neck, can find that spot behind her ear. She shifts then, her leg threading through his, arm tensing across his side, even as she forces her hand to stay limp.

He presses his body against hers, rearranges their legs to slip his between hers, drawing closer, until she opens her mouth against his clavicle, eyes slamming open, cloudy and dark now.

"Well, if I'm up," she mumbles, straining forward to catch his lips. He chuckles against her mouth until there's nothing left but sighs and groans and moans and whispered encouragement to fill the room.

(…)

When he wakes again, she's missing from the bed. He stretches, gliding his hands across the sheets, still warm with the imprint of her body. He yawns and sits up, running a hand through his hair, trying to tame it down, but it can't be done—too many passes with fingers and pillows and sheets.

He registers the sound of the sink running in the bathroom and drags himself out of bed, glancing at the clock. 10am—not bad. He wanders over to the door and knocks gently, smiling as she hums in response. He tuckered her out. Well, woke her, wore her out, and exhausted her.

He pushes the door open and finds her at the sink, tooth brush set out as she fiddles with her ring. She's wearing one of his button downs, but hasn't bothered to do up the buttons, and he wishes he had more energy. As it is, she looks over and smirks at him, naked as he is in the bright lights of his cavernous bathroom.

He grins and strikes a pose, watching as she laughs and shakes her head at him. Silly, he may be. Naked, he may be. But she's signed on for a lifetime of him, so he strikes another pose and then sidles over to wrap his arms around her waist, her back to his chest.

"Morning," he murmurs, kissing her cheek.

"Morning, again," she replies, turning her head to peck his lips. "Thought you might sleep for longer."

He chuckles. "If I remember correctly, I was the one who woke you up."

"Yes, well, you were also the one who passed out like a typical man."

He pauses, smiling at her in the mirror. "You did go back to sleep, right?" he asks after a moment, suddenly guilty.

She nods and pats his hands on her stomach. "I did. Woke up about 15 minutes ago."

She returns her gaze to her hands, twisting the ring around her finger. He follows the reflections the diamonds spread around her hand, wondering.

"You okay?" he asks, lacking for something better.

"Oh, oh, yes," she says quickly, laughing. "Oh, Castle," she sighs, leaning back to press into him. "Wondering about ring safety."

He barks a laugh, and squeezes her. "Ring safety. Of course."

"I don't want to lose it doing dishes or brushing my teeth or something," she mutters, sounding a little sheepish.

This woman, who knocks out gunmen like it's nothing, for whom body guards and open fire are a walk in the park, is worried about the .002 percent chance that her ring will slip down the drain while she brushes her teeth, or takes a shower.

"I'd take it off doing dishes, but it fits, doesn't it?" he asks softly. She nods, stilling her hands. "Then you're safe. I don't know about work."

"It's flat," she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Very considerate of you."

"I didn't want our engagement to be an imposition to your job," he tells her, rolling his eyes as she lifts an eye brow. "Okay, other than the inevitable press coverage and paparazzi destined to razz you."

She grins and reaches back to cup his cheek as they watch themselves in the mirror. "I might wear it on a chain," she says softly. "Just so it doesn't get damaged, or taken."

He turns and presses his lips to her palm, resting there for a moment before bending to kiss her shoulder too. "Whatever you want," he promises against her ear.

"I love it," she tells him.

"I'm glad."

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and then she reaches down and grabs her tooth brush, going about her morning routine like he's not attached to her back—like he's just a part of her, the piece that tags along.

But then she turns and pushes him into the shower, shedding his shirt and turning on the water until they're soapy and wet and remarkably normal. It's just a normal morning—a work-free, careless, morning—like nothing's changed.

She rubs suds over his cheek as he's washing his hair, laughing at him with her sparkling eyes. Nothing has changed, except in a few days, there will be boxes migrating to his apartment, full of her things.

"We should get matching towels," he muses as they rinse off.

She snorts and shuts off the water, sauntering out before him. He lets himself ogle her as she towels off.

"You're dripping on the floor," she comments and he glances down at the small pool of water collecting at his feet.

He shrugs and drags the bathmat over his puddle. She smirks and leaves him inthe bathroom to shave. He listens as she bustles around his room—their room—opening drawers and making the bed.

"Alexis texted me," she calls through as he finishes off his neck. "Wants to know if we're still on for brunch."

"You up for it?" he calls back, wiping down his face as he studies his work. Good lord, he's practically glowing. Damn.

"Already told her we'll meet her at that diner by her dorm," she tells him. "I'm gonna check my mail while you get pretty."

"I'm always pretty," he proclaims as he walks into the bedroom. "Uh, handsome. Rugged."

She laughs and leaves for the office, feet still bare, her damp hair curling around her shoulders. She's just in jean and a purple flowing blouse, so he dresses down. He wears the blue shirt he knows she loves and readjusts the comforter on the bed. She always leaves it a little askew, and it bugs him. Of all the things she does, this is the irksome one.

"Stop remaking the bed," she says through the doorway.

He drops the comforter with a sigh and walks into his office, where she's taken his desk to check her laptop. She's invaded his space, and he loves it. He just wishes she could make the bed straight.

"It's so oddly anal of you," she remarks, not looking up from her screen. "You leave my desk with everything at 37 degree angles, just for fun."

"Only you would actually know the angle measurement," he tosses back, walking around to stand behind her in his chair. Is this what it feels like when he takes her chair at the precinct? 'Cause it's kind of awesome.

"Only you would actually make sure you tilted everything at the same angle, every time."

What can he say? There's an app.

"You need to check anything?" she asks as he leans over her, the back of the chair digging into his ribs.

"Nah. Paula can wait until we've told Alexis."

"You sure?" She looks up at him, clearly not buying it, and he shrugs.

"I may be a celebrity—"

"Watch that ego, Mr. Castle."

He scowls at her. "My fame never comes before my kid."

She smiles and stands up, turning to face him, the chair between them. She climbs onto it and reaches up to steady herself on his shoulders, the chair swaying slightly under her body, wheels rolling gently over the floor.

"You're a good dad," she whispers a she feathers her lips over his. "A really good dad."

He smiles and rests his forehead against hers, witholding the things that want to tumble out; they should enjoy just this, just each other, before they dive back into making more of them—ones with little feet and loud little lungs and toothy smiles. "Brunch?"

(…)

"You guys look better than your picture," Alexis announces as she comes down the stairs to meet them outside of her dorm, the street bathed in late-morning light.

"Picture?" they ask together.

Alexis laughs and pulls a folded section, which looks suspiciously like the Ledger, from her pocket. "You had fun at the dinner, I assume," she adds, holding the paper out to them.

Kate takes it and they peer at the photo together.

"Can we frame this?" Kate breathes quietly.

"I'll call for the color version," he says, scooting so he can get a good angle over her shoulder.

There they are, her hands on his cheeks, his arms clutching her to him as they kiss, oblivious to the world around them—engaged. Engaged. They have an engagement photo.

"Is that a ring?" Alexis asks suddenly.

They have an engagement photo, but the camera is on the wrong side. Kate's unadorned right hand faces the lens. He chuckles against her ear as Alexis surges forward to grab her hand.

"Yes," Kate laughs and moves away to meet Alexis.

He folds the paper up and pockets it as he watches his girls. His daughter has his fiancée by the hand, squealing and he laughs as she clumsily drags him back into them. She squeezes his side, Kate partially trapped between them. He hears his partner laughing, slightly watery as his daughter babbles about tulle and gowns and happiness.

"I can't believe—how did they miss it?" Alexis asks when her voice has returned to a more understandable frequency.

"No idea," Kate says, smiling at him. "Lucky, I guess."

"Boy will they be pissed when it gets out," he says, jovial and floating with it all.

Kate's phone pings and she steps aside to check her texts. Alexis engulfs him in a bear hug, and he stumbles, laughing and caught off guard.

"Are you happy, Daddy?" she whispers.

He glances over at Kate, who's watching them with a soft smile, distracted from the text she was getting ready to send. "I'm very happy."

"Good." She pulls back and smiles at him. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Alexis," he murmurs. She grins and then whips around to include Kate.

"My Dad would love to come for dinner tomorrow night," Kate tells them, nearly confident in it. Maybe it's not insecurity though. She sounds rather shy, like—oh, like she's never done this before. Oh, wow. Huh.

"Great," he manages when Alexis taps him on the arm. He gives Kate a full smile that seems to melt some of her hesitation. "I'll invite mother, and Alexis, you're welcome as well."

"Telling the parents? Oh, I wouldn't miss that."

He laughs and watches as his daughter takes Kate by the arm. They walk together, heads bent to talk to each other, leaving him to trail along, a little left out, but amazed as well.

Kate reaches her hand back for him, the sparkling one, and he takes it, hurrying to keep pace with them. Alexis looks over at him from Kate's other side and grins. He feels Kate squeeze his hand and he bends to press a kiss to her temple. He misses and gets the corner of her eye, but she just chuckles and leans into him.

Alexis starts telling them about her classes as they meander up the four blocks to her favorite breakfast spot, and he revels in the image of the three of them here together.

Family.

"Dad."

"Castle."

He glances over and realizes they're now on a diagonal, with him at the bottom. Crap, he stopped moving. Ah jeez.

"Keep it together, man," Kate teases, tugging on his arm to get him going again. "We're months and months away."

"You guys are doing a long engagement?" Alexis asks as they step off again.

"Well, yeah, but Kate's moving in tomorrow."

"This week," she corrects. "And starting the process."

"Oh, come on," he heckles. "Once you start, that's gonna be it, and we'll be slaving over it until it's done."

She frowns as Alexis laughs, bumping her shoulder. "He's probably right. I'll help." He cannot rememer another time his daughter has looked this excited about a woman in his life, a marriage, an anything.

"You don't need to," Kate says quickly. "You've got tons of better things to do than to box up my stuff."

Alexis shakes her head. "You're moving into my house. I'm totally there. I'll even bring Graham for the heavy lifting."

"I approve," Castle says, grinning as Kate tries to elbow him. "What? It's a good use of the boyfriend."

"See if I let you get those movers," Kate mutters as Alexis smiles.

"Oh, see, fiancé use is very different," he defends.

"Yeah," Alexis agrees. "He's even more controllable."

"Hey!" he exclaims as his daughter pulls the door to the diner open.

"Face it," Kate says as they huddle in the entryway, pressed against each other while Alexis liaises with the hostess. "You're doomed."


	36. Chapter 36

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Back home waiting for my last year of college to start. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 36:<strong>

He grunts as something hits his side. He rolls away, burrowing into his pillow, eager to sink back into his lovely dream—something about sun, and a naked Kate Beckett, and his pool in the Hamptons.

"No," he hears, a muffled plea next to him, and he rolls back over, his hazy mind tipping on alert.

"I can't. I can't."

He opens his eyes and blinks into the darkness of the room, finding Kate's face pressed into her own pillow, mouth open, eyes scrunched and shining in the very dim light seeping under his curtains. Her hand fists in his pillow and she lets out a low sob, twisting suddenly, her knee bumping into his as she goes fetal beside him.

"Kate," he whispers, reaching out to tentatively place his hand on her shoulder.

Big mistake.

She flails, her hand connecting solidly with his chest, pushing him over. Her leg kicks out and he gets the heel of her foot in his knee as she startles awake next to him. He winces, reaching up to rub at his chest—pretty good hit for a sleeping woman.

"Ca-Castle?" she mumbles, eyes over-wide as she stares at him. "Did I—you're—"

She launches onto him, and he catches her, sliding up in bed so she's not crushing him at odd angles, her body curled into his. He ends up with her in his lap, and he's so tired, so confused, bruising from her late-night attack. She shudders into him, her forehead pressing into his cheek.

He doesn't quite have words yet; his mind and his mouth just can't get it together, so he hums and presses his lips to the top of her head, pulling her into him.

"Stop," she mumbles. "Please stop."

He stops humming and stills beneath her, but she shakes her head, slowly pulling back so she can settle in the vee of his legs, can make her way to running her hands through his hair.

"Stop what?" he asks softly, finding his words.

"Dying," she whispers. "Over and over."

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Dying—he's been dying in her dreams. For how long? He bends and feathers his lips over her temple, trying to give her some kind of comfort while he battles to find sentences and phrases.

"I kept waking up, but not. A different floor, a different graveyard, a different time. Every close call. Over and over and over," she lets out, fisting a hand into his shirt. "Every time I end up with a chain around my neck and your kid sobbing on the ground and I can't, Castle. I can't."

He hauls her back into him, encircles her with his body, and breathes against her forehead. "I'm here," he makes out. "I'm here, and I'm staying here, and it's just a dream."

"Over and over and over and over," she mumbles into his neck, her arms tight around him, legs wrapped around his hips. "Just stop. Stop and I can sleep."

"I'll try," he promises, lost for something better. "I'm right here."

"I don't know why," she whispers, and he feels her take her first deep breath, feels her hand retreat to sit over his heart. "So happy. I'm so happy. I don't get it."

"Just a dream," he repeats. "Just a nightmare."

"Days," she admits. "For days. And I don't get it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" slips out before he can stop it.

She shrugs against him. "I thought it would just go away."

"Kate," he sighs, pulling back to look at her. "That's why you haven't been sleeping," he deduces, and he knows he's got her when her eyes flutter shut and she bites her lip. "You need to sleep."

"I did last night," she says, almost sheepish. "You tired me out."

He laughs softly as she tries on a smile. "Touché. But nights when we haven't just gotten engaged."

"I know," she mumbles. "I know. I just—I," she trails off and shakes her head, her legs loosening around his hips. "I need some warm milk or something. I'm jittery."

And she's off his lap, moving toward the office. He watches as she opens the door to the office, a little stunned, and still a little tired. She turns back to him, a small, real smile on her face in the light pouring through behind her.

"You comin', Castle?"

"Yeah," he says, shooting clumsily out of bed to follow her out into the dim kitchen, lit by the single lamp they leave on in the living room.

She's already pulling down a pot when he reaches her. He grabs the milk for her and watches as she prepares the hot drink—the way she reaches into his cupboards, knows them already. They'll box up some of her stuff later today. Later, when the sun is out, they'll bring pieces of her back to fill his loft, their loft, to make room for her life to fully join his—to give up with his and hers.

"Cocoa?" she asks, and he snaps his gaze back to her as they stand across from each other, him resting back against the far counter as she stands beside the burners.

"No," he says softly.

She nods and stirs the milk once before lifting the pot to pour it into their mugs—the specialty gun and pen mugs. He chuckles and takes his as she extends it, watches as she dumps the pot in the sink, fills it with water.

She brings him over to the couch, and they sit side-by-side, drinking warm milk, but he's no longer tired, and she's still thrumming beside him. He sips, feeling it lull his body, but not his mid. Days—she's been dreaming like this for days, and maybe longer. And she didn't tell him.

"Since shopping with Lanie," she says. She always knows—answers the questions that get stuck in his throat. "We talked about work."

"About the precinct?" he wonders, trying to piece it together.

"The precinct, my break." She pauses for a long drag of milk. "And then I talked about going back with Burke."

"Ah," he manages. She's still beside him, almost over-calm, her left hand glittering lightly as she shifts her grip on her mug.

"And you just die every night. Every way possible. We start at the precinct, and I end at a grave, or over your body, or with Alexis crying, and—" she breaks off and fiddles with her ring, looking down at it. "And tonight, every one ended with me taking this off and putting in on my mother's chain. Every time. Five times before you woke me."

He nearly drops his cup as he puts it on the coffee table so he can reach out. He slides his palm over her knee that's curled up to her chest. She puts her own mug down and turns toward him so she can meet his eyes. She looks so stoic now—so oddly unaffected.

"They're just dreams," she says evenly. "And I know they're dreams."

"Kate," he says, scooting over to her until he can get his arm around her back. She shifts so her legs cross over his and leans her head against his bicep.

"I'm okay," she assures him, running a hand through his hair to tidy it.

"You're not sleeping."

"But I'm fine during the day," she argues. "No panic attacks, no startles, sparkly ring." She taps her fingers against his jaw with a small smile. "I'm good."

"You hit me," he offers, and her eyes go wide, glance down to his chest, where there's still the faint imprint of her hand against his skin.

"I—I hit you," she repeats, staring at him. "I. Wow, sorry."

He shakes his head and rubs his free hand along her thigh. "No, don't be. I just—they're not your normal dreams."

Kate sighs and runs her hand down her face, digging her fingers into her cheek. "Night terrors," she says after a minute. "Shit."

"Terrors?"

"I had them last summer," she admits, whacking the back of her head gently against his arm. "And one back in November during the sniper case. God damnit."

"Hey," he protests as her frown deepens. "Just dreams."

"Castle, I could have really hurt you." Her eyes flash as she looks at him. "What if it had been your nose? Or your—the family jewels? Your eye?"

"It wasn't," he insists, waiting until she meets his eyes again. "But I want—how do I help you?"

"I don't know," she groans, and her eyes slip shut. "I don't know. Dad couldn't. And Burke said they'd just fade. But I don't know why."

She stands suddenly, dislodging his hands and leaving him blinking up at her as she begins to pace. He watches, feeling helpless and a little lost. She had them last summer. Okay. So they're a symptom of her PTSD, of grief, of healing. Fine. But she wasn't sharing a bed last summer—wasn't sharing a life last summer.

"Things with us are stable," she says, and he brings his gaze back to her roving form, wearing a hole in his shaggy carpet. "Super stable," she adds, flashing her ring at him. "I'm all healed. I'm not jumpy anymore," she continues, ticking things off on her fingers, looking astoundingly serious in just a light robe, tank top and cotton panties. "I'm eating. I'm getting exercise. I'm getting space. I'm relaxing."

"Kate," he cuts in as she starts getting more and more agitated.

"I'm doing everything right," she hisses, twirling back to face him. "Every stupid thing. I can't go back to work. I can't go back to being normal, and I'm being good. I'm being so good."

"It just takes—"

"Time," she cuts back. "I know. But I've given it time and I want—I want to go back to work, and go back to feeling safe, and I—" She stops pacing and stares at him, intense and breaking and suddenly so sad. "I want to stop watching you die every night. I can't take much more, I can't."

"Okay," he says and he stands up. "So, is it work?"

She groans and leans her head back to look up at the ceiling. "I did this with Burke already."

Either he can cave to her, let her suffer, and stand helpless, or he can try—something, anything. "You're not watching him die."

"Look. I don't—"

"Are you worried about going back to work and something happening to me?" he asks, because between the lines, racking it all up, there in the subtext, she's screaming it.

"No," she bites out quickly—too quickly. "No I'm—maybe? I don't know, Castle."

"Because there's more at stake now?" he continues, taking a few steps toward her.

"Ring or not you're equally important to me," she argues, shifting on her feet.

"Because we've been out of the crosshairs for a few months, and it's daunting?"

"I came back from a bullet wound, didn't I?" she growls.

"Because once you move in here, and we get married, and we have kids, if I die, or you die, it shatters?" he presses, a foot away now.

That does it.

"It's stupid!" she says hoarsely. "Stupid. So stupid. Nothing's changed. You've been with me for years, and this hasn't happened. And I didn't have dreams where I'm too hurt to help you—where I go down and then take you down with me."

Oh Kate.

"And I'm frozen, or I'm shot, or I'm stabbed, and you're bleeding out, and I can't help you, and the ring is so heavy on my finger, and then it's like lead against my chest when we put you in the ground and I. Can't."

He reaches out and pulls her into his chest, pressing his lips into her hair as she clutches at him. Every night. He—oh, he knows what it feels like, to watch her die and not be able to stop it. He's lived it. Twice. And he's relived it, over and over as well.

"I have the same dreams," he whispers.

"You shouldn't," she roughs out against his neck.

"Till death do us part," he promises. "Sickness and health."

"I don't want you to have this sickness," she whispers.

"It's not a sickness," he assures her. "It's a rough patch, and we'll get through it. You have to stop beating yourself up about it."

"Preaching to the choir," she mumbles before pulling back, her eyes shining but holding steady.

"Stop beating yourself up for beating yourself up," he adds, smiling a little.

"Yeah, well," she lets out on a chuckle.

"Think you can sleep?" he asks after a moment of staring, of watching her put herself back together.

She nods, bringing her hands around to cup his cheeks as she presses up on her tip toes. Her lips meet his in a sleepy kiss and then she guides him back to the bedroom by the tips of her fingers. She cuddles close beneath the blankets, wrapping herself around him, proof that he's there with her.

"You're a good man," she whispers, pressing her lips to his shoulder.

He feels his chest swell with it, as she relaxes against him—that somehow, through his fumbling, he's made it a little better, the load a little lighter.

"I love you," he says, all he has. He feels her smile against his chest as she drifts off. And with her breathing, and warm beside him, he's not far behind.

But then he wakes.

Chest heaving, eyes stinging, panic roiling in his chest, he startles, hazy images fading behind his eyes.

A smaller hand smoothes over his chest, another over his forehead, and he blinks up at his fiancée, so blissfully real and alive above him. Not dead. Not in the ground. There's no ring around his neck—no broken eulogy to give—no cold corpse beside his groping, injured fingers.

"Sickness and health, huh?" she whispers, bending to kiss his forehead from where she's sitting by his hip.

He reaches up and hauls her down to him, hugging too hard and too desperately. "Please stop," he murmurs.

She kisses his chest, his neck. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head and glances over at the clock. They made it two hours. He blinks a few times, so starkly awake now, after the terror of his dream. "You said you didn't dream last night," he says.

She nods against him. "Did you?"

"No. Maybe we should give up on sleep," he suggests.

She laughs softly. "Just have sex until we pass out?"

"I'm game," he says instantly. She's soft and warm above him, and he knows he can chase away the dream, the image of her so pale and lifeless. Her body and her kiss and the reality of them together in bed can gloss all of it over.

She shifts against him, rising up to support herself with a hand on either side of his head. "Persuade me," she mumbles into his lips.

And he does. Twice.

(…)

"I'm still not convinced that the walk-in will be big enough," she announces as she comes back into the kitchen.

He laughs and holds out a spoonful of sauce for her to try. She cups a hand under the spoon as she wraps her lips around it. The moan she lets out is sinful and he grins as she smirks at him, eyes sparkling.

They're both tired and a little strung out, but there are boxes of clothes in the walk-in and jackets and dresses and pants already hanging up. She's here. She's living here. And that's enough to overcome the exhaustion. Her grin is enough to forget the crick in his back from that badly handled box and that extra minute at that angle last night.

"S'good," she says as she swallows the sauce.

"Secret Castle recipe," he taunts smugly as she leans against him, arching onto her toes to dig her chin into his shoulder.

He's making home-made chicken parm for this dinner with her father and his mother and his daughter. And he's been at it for hours while she unpacks; she deemed him unhelpful, as she said he was simply trying to get her clothes off, not help hang up any of the others. Might be true. But still.

"Do I have to wait to learn it until we're married?" she wonders, her hands sneaking along his sides, playful.

"Yes," he decides. "Maybe not even then."

"You don't want me to be able to make this for you?" she asks breathily.

He groans and bumps his head against hers. "Unless you want me to take off your clothes here in the kitchen for your father to see, play nice."

"Gross, Castle," she grumbles, sliding back off of him.

He laughs as she grabs plates and sets the table. They pass each other, plating dinner with ease and expedience—like they're good at it, together. They are. And somehow, it knocks the breath out of his chest. They're good at making dinner for their family, and soothing nightmares, and packing boxes. They're going to get married and be domestic and raise a family.

"Hey," Kate says as he stands there, immobile by the pot he's just taken off the burner to add sauce to the chicken, grated cheese left untouched by his right hand. "You okay?"

"Fine," he says quickly, moving to finish off the chicken and set it to bake for ten more minutes.

Kate watches him as he works, her lip pulled between her teeth. When he sets the pan in the oven, he turns to her and they stare at each other.

"Really telling our parents, aren't we?" she says, giving it words.

He laughs. "Yeah. Weird?"

"Very." She scuffs a foot against the floor, the skirt of her blue dress rustling around her knees. "Does this—ah, is it really awkward?"

Because she hasn't done it before, and he has. "Not with my mother," he admits. But he's never done it with the person he's going to spend the rest of his life with, even if he thought otherwise. Kate is the last. "But, your dad won't be blindsided."

She arches an eyebrow and he swallows. He never really meant to tell her about that, did he? "Castle."

"He told me I should have a ring," he admits, a little sheepish, a little defiant. "Said I'd want one when the moment came."

She opens her mouth but doesn't comment, blinking a few times. "O-kay. Well. Um."

The door opens and his mother, Alexis, and Jim traipse in, calling out greetings. Kate startles and flashes him a nervous smile before spinning around to catch Alexis as she runs up for a hug.

His daughter has her hair up in that braided thing Kate wears sometimes, and he wonders when they got a chance to exchange that hair secret. Alexis goes for him next and he wraps his arms around his baby, pressing loud kisses to her head that have her laughing and shoving him off, grinning up at him.

"Smells great," she announces.

"I'll second that," Jim says as he and Martha make their way into the kitchen to join them. "Yours, Rick?"

"A Castle secret recipe," he tells the man, walking over to take his hand as his mother embraces Kate.

"To be reserved for only blood Castles, apparently," Kate adds as she pulls away from Martha—quite a feat, since the woman hasn't glimpsed the ring yet.

"You gunning to be a non-blood Castle, Katie?" Jim asks as Castle turns to take the chicken out of the oven and bring it over to the table to join their large pot of spaghetti.

"Um, well," Kate says, helping him find space for the pan. "I—"

"Is something sparkling on the table?" Martha asks, sounding thoroughly delighted.

"Katie?"

Kate straightens up and glances over at him. He's doing a horrible job of hiding his grin. "It is," she says softly.

She holds out her hand for her father and his mother to see, and Castle watches as a grin spreads across Kate's face as her father reaches out to turn her hand so he can see the ring. His mother is staring at him across the table, proud and a little tearful, and he feels himself glowing a little.

"You did good, son," Jim says, flashing him a smile as Kate retracts her hand and starts plating food.

"Congratulations," Martha adds.

"Yes, congratulations," Jim says. "Wonderful."

"Thanks, Dad, Martha," Kate says as she passes both of them plates of spaghetti piled with Castle's famous chicken parm. "And, I'm moving in here, starting, ha, today, actually."

Alexis giggles as both Jim and Martha laugh. "About time, Kiddo," Martha tells her, smiling as Kate blushes and takes a bite of her chicken to avoid talking.

She moans a moment later and lifts her eyes to his. "I take it back. Never teach me to make this. I'll get obscenely fat."

"Good?" he asks, smug and happy and amazed by the picture before him.

"Ungodly," she returns.

Jim seconds her statement and takes another hearty bite as Martha and Alexis share a smile. "I'll reserve it for making up to you," Castle decides.

"This'll get you halfway there," Kate admits, thoroughly uncaring about the conversation they're having in front of their parents, or the way she's guzzling in the food.

"Careful," Alexis cautions. "He is annoyingly endearing."

"Very hard to stay mad at him," Martha adds, and he frowns at his family.

"Thanks," he grumbles.

"Katie has staying power," Jim argues, thoroughly enjoying himself. "I'm sure she can withstand his charms."

"Dunno, Dad," Kate says as she looks over at Castle. "I've forgiven him a lot. And likewise," she adds quickly.

"I like to think I got out of most of those on good behavior and sincere apology," he argues playfully. "The charm was an added bonus."

Kate shakes her head, laughing. "This would have made it faster."

"Damn," he groans.

They both know that no amount of chicken parmesan could have smoothed over the early part of the summer, or opening her mother's case, or not calling. The same goes for her not calling, and lying, and withholding; she does make a mean brinner.

But for forgetting to do the dishes, or leaving the bed slightly crooked, or the toothpaste uncapped, he can see food making the difference. It's not going to take much. It's not like they don't piss each other off on a daily basis already. That's hardly new, or deal breaking.

"I'm sure you'll have an opportunity to try it out sooner or later," Kate says, grinning at him, her eyes soft and amused.

"It's gonna be about the boxes," he decides, looking at his family, blood and not. "I'm gonna screw up the boxes somehow."

"Ten on Tuesday," Alexis says immediately.

Kate nearly spits out her water as Martha exclaims, "Wednesday."

"Monday," Jim decides.

"I don't know that I approve of you betting on my ineptitude," Castle says while Kate shakes her head, a hand pressed to her mouth to keep from laughing. "They're betting on your short temper too," he adds, just so he's not all alone in it.

"Oh, I know," Kate says, looking over at him, completely at ease. "I was thinking about who's going to win the pool at the precinct, actually."

"Kevin," Alexis says. "No, wait, Lanie? I don't remember who had this week."

Castle lets his fork drop. "They got you in on another one?"

Alexis laughs. "Who do you think started it?"

He gapes at his daughter as his mother and Jim roar. Kate catches his eye and smiles, reaching out to touch his hand with her sparkling left one.

Fine. Fine. He's living with a seductress, being bet on by his friends, and trying to hold his own against a fifth member in this little family they've created.

Kate squeezes his hand. "Twenty that it's Lanie," she says.

He grins. Well, if you can't beat 'em. "Forty on Ryan."

"You're on," she says impishly.


	37. Chapter 37

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I've watched 10 episodes of Doctor Who in two days. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 37:<strong>

"Thank you," she says smugly, taking the forty dollars with a grin.

Even Ryan is shaking his head. "Dude, come on."

"At least I had faith in you," he protests, looking the man over. Lanie's too busy waving her IOU around like a cheerleader to care. "Thought maybe you could use the money with Jenny—second honeymoon."

"And I don't need a second honeymoon?" Esposito asks, tossing him a glare.

"You'd need a first one, Javi," Kate says easily, laughing as he huffs and Ryan sniggers into his hand.

Castle smiles as she leans into his side, reaching across his body to steal a sip of his brandy. She smirks at him over the rim of the glass, all too aware of how hot she is when she steals his liquor.

"That is some rock," Esposito says as Lanie rejoins them around the bar.

"Gorgeous," Lanie agrees, taking Kate's hand to turn the diamonds into the low light. "You did good, Castle."

"I like to think so," he says as Kate smiles and nudges the glass into his chest.

He takes it from her and then watches as she and Lanie walk across the bar toward the bathrooms, dresses swishing along the backs of their thighs. Kate put on this amazing red number and has her hair all twisted up on her head. He's having trouble keeping it off his face; the guys wouldn't appreciate him throwing her down on the pool table.

"Dude, that's my woman," Espo grumbles, taking a swig of his beer.

"Was looking at mine," Castle replies distractedly.

"You guys are pathetic," Ryan decides as he hops up onto a stool.

Castle and Esposito share a look before bursting into laughter.

"Come on, Honeymilk," Esposito teases as he joins his partner at the bar. "If anyone's a lost puppy, it's you."

Ryan scowls into his beer. "You two are just as bad."

Esposito scoffs but Castle has to take pity on the man. "I'm a little pathetic sometimes," he admits.

Ryan gives him a grateful look as Esposito puffs up his chest. "I'm not."

"Oh really?" Esposito should remember that Ryan's got a bite on him when he wants. Poor guy. "Ryan, Ryan, make sure you've got a place for my cousin. Can't go alone if Lanie's bringing a doctor," Ryan mocks.

"Shut up," Esposito grumbles. "That was different."

"Really?"

"At least I don't check in with her every ten minutes," he argues, hunching his shoulders as they lean against the bar.

"It's sweet," Ryan rebuffs.

"It's a little sickening," Castle admits. "In the good way."

"Like you're not sickening," Esposito adds.

"We're adorable," Castle says impishly, putting on a fake Lanie that makes both men cringe.

"That's disturbingly uncanny," Ryan tells him as Castle's cell rings in his pocket.

Castle laughs and slides his thumb across his phone. "Castle."

"Hi, Richard. It's Jack Davenport."

Esposito and Ryan are messing around next to him, but Castle feels his stomach plummet. "Hi, Jack. Is everything alright?"

He hears his mother's boyfriend clear his throat across the line. "Actually, no, it isn't. I'm at New York Presbyterian. Your mother was just taken in."

Castle jumps up and stumbles a little, uneasy on his feet. "Um, okay. We'll, we'll be there—what happened?"

"Dude?" Ryan asks quietly.

"Beckett," he mumbles to them as he holds himself steady, a hand on one of the bar stools.

"Martha and I were out and she just kind of collapsed. She was breathing though."

"God. Okay, we're—Kate," he whispers as she comes up to him. "We'll be there in twenty. Where are you?"

"ER waiting room," Jack tells him as Kate runs a hand down his arm. "See you soon."

The call cuts out and he buckles for a moment. Kate's hand wraps around his bicep, her other at his back. "Castle?"

"My—my mother's at Presbyterian. She collapsed with Jack, I—"

"Rick," she breathes, but he has to shake it off, move forward.

"Taxi. Come on. We'll get a—"

"No way, Bro," Esposito cuts in, and he feels them all at his back, Kate guiding him up and out to the street, her hand gliding down to clutch at his.

Before he can ask, he's being hustled into the back of Ryan and Espo's cruiser. He sees Lanie jogging down the street toward her car while Kate gets him settled beside her. Esposito throws the gumball.

It's nearly too much. His mother is in the hospital. The sirens. The flash of the light. Everything is so loud, so startling. His mother. God, his mother.

He looks to Kate and finds her there, her fingers tight between his, determination on her face. "Jack said she was in the ER?"

"Ye-yeah," he manages.

"Be there soon," she promises. "Espo?"

"Goin' as fast as I can, boss," he grunts out, and Castle realizes for the first time that it's raining.

"Careful," he rasps out. "Alexis," he adds, because with the rain, and the dim night light, he sees visions—dual hospital beds, his family broken and bleeding. His mom. Oh, what happens if his mom—

"Rick," Kate says sharply, pulling him back out of it. He looks at her, suddenly lost. "Call her when we know what's going on," she adds, softer.

"Right," he says, nodding inanely.

She brings their hands up and kisses the back of his palm before looking out the window. He holds on, watching their hands as he tries to take in enough air to keep his head above water. He doesn't even know what's wrong yet.

But she's his mother. She's all he's got. She's in the hospital. And they were drinking, like nothing was wrong. If he'd been there—

"There's nothing you could have done," Kate says, and he gapes at her. "Just keep breathing. You got this."

He takes her hand in both of his and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. Nothing he could have done. He has to believe her. Has to. Because she's already lost her mother. And his is going to be fine. The world can't take Martha from him, from them, too.

All too soon, and not quickly enough, they arrive at the hospital. He opens his mouth to say something to the guys, but they just wave them in. He thinks Ryan says something to Kate—something about Lanie, and calling—but he can't hear, can only feel her hand in his as they jog toward the doors.

She leads him through—seems to know the hospital better than he does—and they come to the Emergency wing. He stalls, rocking back on his heels as they stand in front of the doors.

"Hey," she says softly, coming to stand in front of him.

He drags his eyes to hers, away from the white, sterile doors. "Kate," he manages.

She wraps her arms around him, her hand cradling his head, her other arm strong around his shoulders as he grips at her waist.

"She's gonna be okay," Kate whispers into his ear before pressing her lips to his cheek. "It's all going to be okay."

"You don't know," he croaks.

"If you don't believe in magic, you'll never ever find it," she says back, and he blinks as she pulls away. Did she just— "Now come on. Jack's waiting."

Bolstered by her faint smile and the glide of her fingers into his, he follows her into the waiting room.

"Jack," Kate calls softly, and the man in question lifts his head.

Hollowed out—he looks hollowed out. He stands, running a hand down his wrinkled jacket. "Rick, Kate," he offers as they reach him.

He shakes Castle's hand and accepts the hug Kate offers. Castle watches his fiancée. She's a champ, a superwoman here. How does she know? How stupid, of course she knows how this goes. Different circumstances, but sure. She knows. Oh, God, what if?

"How is she?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse, unsteady.

"They came out and said she's stable. We should be allowed back in about thirty minutes," he tells them.

"Stable," Castle repeats, sinking down into a chair as Jack takes a seat.

"Nothing else. I kept asking, but she didn't know anything else."

"Castle," Kate says gently. He looks up at her, battling with his head, always so good at spinning stories. "Alexis."

"Shit," he breathes out. "I—"

"I can call," she offers.

He opens his mouth to protest, but she's already got her phone out, Alexis picked out on her I.D. before he can get a word in. He slumps back and she reaches out to touch his cheek before moving away.

"What happened?" he asks, turning to look at the man beside him—his mother's steady boyfriend.

Jack sighs, his normally boisterous demeanor dampened and squashed down to this man wringing his hands, almost defeated. "We went dancing, had a few drinks—fun. Your mother is so fun, and full of life. And in the middle of _Sing, Sing, Sing_, she started gasping, and then collapsed. She didn't go fully under until the ambulance got there, but I—" he breaks off and scrubs a hand over his face. "I was so—she got so pale. I didn't know what to do."

"You got her here," Castle argues. "And I can't thank you enough for being there with her."

Jack shakes his head and meets Castle's eyes. "I care very deeply for your mother. I might—I'm—"

Castle chuckles and holds up a hand. "She should hear it first."

Jack laughs and nods, relaxing a little. "Spoken by the voice of experience?"

Castle looks over at Kate as she wanders the room, speaking to his daughter, calm and collected and extraordinary. "Spoken from more than one major misstep," he decides.

Jack smiles and sinks in the chair. They fall silent for a minute and the light seeps out, darkness creeping in. His mother, what's wrong with his mother? He twists his hands and feels himself biting his lip against it—a habit he's surely picked up from Kate.

"You doing all right?" Jack asks as Castle lets out a ragged breath.

Castle laughs hollowly. "No, but I better get there."

"She's a big girl," Jack says after a moment.

He nods and they sit for a minute, quiet in worry. "But she doesn't need to see this. And," he takes a deep breath and stands as Kate comes back to him, murmuring a goodbye to his kid. "And, we should, do—coffee? Do you want coffee? Kate, Jack?"

"Alexis says she'll be here in 20, if she can make traffic. And coffee would be great. Want me to get some?" she asks.

"I'll go," Jack says quickly. "There's a café a few halls over."

Castle watches him go and sighs, sinking back down onto a chair. He runs his fingers through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. It smells like a hospital, like last summer. But his mother hasn't been shot, and Kate is warm and strong beside him—stronger than he is.

"Alexis was calm," she tells him, like she knows what he'd ask if he could push past the panic clawing at his throat. "Have they told you anything?"

He shakes his head and feels her hand glide over his back, a steady weight. "What do I—" he breaks off.

"You wait," Kate says gently. "And you hug your kid."

He nods slowly and glances over at her, this pillar of strength and comfort. He feels like he's being ripped apart but for the hand on his back. "Thanks."

She smiles and leans down to press her lips to his forehead. "In sickness and health."

(…)

"Daddy," Alexis breathes as he crushes her to his chest.

"She'll be okay," he murmurs, locking eyes with Kate over his daughter's shoulder. If she believes it, he will too. He has to. "She's stable."

"She was breathing and beating when we got her in," Jack adds from their left.

Castle kisses his daughter's forehead as she pulls away, eyes so wide and terrified. "Are you okay?" he asks, looking her over.

She's still panting, a little rain-damp, and it doesn't look like she'll catch her breath any time soon. "I just want—I want to know what's going on," she gets out, and there she is, his serious, too-grown daughter, hiding in this frightened girl.

"We will, soon," he says as he guides her into a chair.

He sees Kate walk toward the nurses station. Jack passes him a bottle of water and he hands it to Alexis, watching as she rips the top off and takes a ragged sip.

They're rather alone in the waiting room. A couple in the corner is rocking a distressed looking baby, the father wearing a bathrobe over boxers and a white shirt, the mother with a parka on over a teddy. Castle watches as the man wraps his arm around his wife, cradling the baby's head against her shoulder as they sit there, quiet and desperate.

"Castle."

He looks up and Kate is standing there in front of him, her hand light and gentle on his shoulder. He hums his attention up at her and she smiles.

"They said someone should be out in about ten minutes to take us back. She's okay."

He lets out a breath of relief. Okay and healthy are separate things, but here's confirmation again that his mother is alive. Thank God she's alive. "Hear that, Pumpkin? She's okay."

Alexis nods weakly and Jack slumps in his seat. Kate rubs his cheek and then sits beside his daughter, taking the girl's hand. Castle watches as Alexis lets her head hit Kate's shoulder, closing her eyes as Kate adjusts to get her arm around the girl. She whispers to his daughter, things he cannot hear, and he tracks her eyes to the couple in the corner when a nurse comes through the doors to usher them in.

They run, the baby cradled between them.

He looks back at his fiancée and finds her eyes. It could be them in a few years. Alexis snuffles on her shoulder. Maybe it is them already, just a different them.

(…)

Angina.

He nearly falls over with relief as the doctor smiles at them—an older guy with spectacles and a waning head of hair. Dr. Smith, he said, maybe. He's too happy, too relieved to let the connotation chill him.

Alexis and Jack stand on either side of his mother, who is still asleep, but slowly coming to. He glances at his daughter, who has tears running down her cheeks, and catches her eye. She beams at him, laughing a little.

Jack—Jack just looks at his mother, so much wonder, relief, and latent terror on his face. Is that how he looked with Kate last year, watching her before she woke?

"Castle," the woman in question murmurs, pulling him out of it, where they stand at the foot of his mother's bed.

"And she'll be fine?" he repeats toward Dr. Smith. Kate's hand squeezes around his. So she noticed too.

"Completely. A radical diet change and some more regimented exercise and she'll be just fine. I'll send you home in the morning with a packet and a recommendation. We need to keep her over night."

"Of course," he says slowly.

"Visiting hours?" Kate asks quickly.

"We can let one of you stay; if it's you, Mr. Davenport, just have Mr. Castle sign off on it. The rest, unfortunately, need to leave by eleven. If she has questions tonight, you can call me back. We'll give her a run down in the morning when she's a little more with it."

They nod and Dr. Smith gives them all a smile before leaving the room. Eleven. That's in twenty minutes.

Kate's arm wraps around his waist and he sinks back against it, tossing his arm over her shoulder as he lightly touches his mother's foot, anchors both.

"Dr. Smith," Kate whispers, her lips against his shoulder.

"Only good Smiths, now," he whispers back.

She smiles. It's brittle, but they're there. And His mother will be okay. She'll be fine. Just angina. Scary as hell angina, but she's fine. Sallow cheeks against white pillows, her red hair vibrant against the gloom—his mother is going to be fine.

Martha stirs and slowly comes to. "J—Jack?" she asks.

"Right here," Jack says softly. "You're okay."

"Hospital?" She blinks around, notices Alexis. "Alexis, dear, what are you?"

But she's lost to the gentle hug from his daughter, broken snippets of "You're okay. Thank God," floating back to them.

"Richard, Kate," she adds as Alexis releases her. Jack still has her hand and has taken to kissing it while he watches her, smiling.

"Hi, Martha," Kate says, leaning into him. "Good to see you awake."

Martha nods and then meets Castle's eyes. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't. How can he tell her how much it means, how scared he was, how much everything—she is everything and all he had for so long. How can he explain that?

"You're pale, kiddo," she rasps.

He laughs. "Yeah. Very dramatic of you, mom," he manages.

Kate pinches his side, at the ready to reprimand, but his mother smiles, her eyes softening and crinkling as she looks at him. "Sorry, Richard."

Kate gentles at his side as he smiles at his mother, his grip on her foot stronger now. She wiggles her toes with a laugh and he relaxes. Finally, he relaxes.

Jack explains what happened and Alexis fills in the bits he forgets while Castle and Kate just stand there, watching. Martha touches Jack's cheek, rubs her thumb across his lips as Alexis sinks into a chair at her side.

His mother is okay. She's going to be fine. She's going to be just fine.

"It's eleven," Kate tells him gently.

"I'll stay," Jack says immediately. "You need to sleep," he adds as Alexis tries to protest.

"I could hide," she says meekly.

"No, no, kiddo. You go sleep and go to your classes tomorrow. Then come and have dinner with me," Martha placates, squeezing Alexis' hand. "Richard?"

"Come on, Alexis," he agrees, motioning her toward them. "Mother, I'll be—"

"We'll be," Kate interjects.

"We'll be back when you get discharged," he amends, squeezing Kate's shoulder as she rubs her hand along his side. "You're sure, Jack?"

"Just give me permission with the desk," he says easily, pulling up a chair beside his mother's bed.

"Will do," Castle promises as Kate takes Alexis' hand. "Sleep well, mother."

"You too," she offers, tired and sickly, but bright. She's still full of life, full of kick.

He gives her a last glance and then guides the rest of his family out of her hospital room. Kate practically has to drag Alexis out. He gets it. He does. His mother is more of a mother than Meredith ever was, and he can see that Alexis is shaken.

"Go talk to the desk," Kate tells him gently, giving him a push toward the nurses station as she wraps an arm around Alexis.

He talks distractedly to the patient night nurse as he watches Kate guide his kid out of the wing and through the double doors to the waiting room. Once Jack's stay is squared away, he follows his girls out and into the chilly night.

Kate is already on her cell phone, calling them a cab as Alexis leans into her, her cheek pressed to his fiancée's shoulder. Castle walks over and presses a kiss to his daughter's forehead.

She opens her eyes but doesn't move. "She's okay," she tells him.

He smiles, trying to provide the comfort he used to give when she was little—when a kiss from Daddy made her indomitable. It doesn't work so well, but he sees her relax a little more. Could be the circles Kate is rubbing on her shoulder. Her bare shoulder. Shit, Alexis.

"Here," he says gruffly, pulling off the jacket he doesn't remember putting back on.

He and Kate get it situated on Alexis' shoulders. At least Kate is wearing a jacket, flimsy as it is. It's still raining, and the wind whips through their covered alcove by the doors. Her legs—gorgeous, mile long legs—must be cold.

"I'm okay," she promises as he moves to stand by her side, threading their fingers together. "You okay?"

"Of course," he says quickly.

But he's not, is he?

(…)

He shudders, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he bows over his knees. He has to stop. Alexis went upstairs after a long cuddle on the couch and two cups of cocoa. Kate is just in the office, calling her father to give him an update. Because they're at that point now; his mother is important to her father.

And he's in their room having a breakdown.

There are three of her boxes in the corner, two already unpacked and folded up in the closet. Her bedside table looks thoroughly used, the top of the bureau covered with her things—make up, hair bobs, a curling iron, straightening iron. Facets of her life are everywhere, mixed with his.

He's still crying. He can't seem to stop. He just—his mother. His only mother. His only parent. And she's mortal.

Stupid. It's stupid. But he always thought—so selfishly thought it was just Kate. That her mother was taken, and so somehow, he never thought his own could be. Disease, murder, accident, catastrophe—she could die any day. And she's all he has. Who is he, really, without his mother? What does he do if she's gone?

But she isn't. She isn't, and he has to pull himself together. Has to get out of this spiral that started with the phone call, and nose dived with Dr. Smith, and then went on and on into this—this pathetic man on his bed, grieving for a non-existent loss.

"Castle?"

He doesn't move, can't move. He just blows out a breath and orders his eyes to stop it, tells his heart to get over itself and just be happy. It should work like that.

He feels her hands as they card through his hair, the bump of her knees into his. Her lips press against his forehead and she stays there, breathing against him, bent over him until he lets his hands fall and looks up at her.

"She's okay," Kate promises, her hair down around her shoulders now, body relaxed as his hands trail over her hips.

She's alive, and his mother is alive, and his daughter is alive.

"Can you guys stop being in the hospital?" he beseeches.

She laughs, the sound a little broken, and finds his lips for a soft kiss. "Do our best," she says as they break apart.

Another tear falls down his cheek and she wipes it away as he snuffles. God, he hates himself like this. Weak—he feels so weak. "How do you do it?" he wonders, the question just falling out, defenses down, filter flimsy.

Because she can wake up each morning and put one foot in front of the other, and he can't even deal with his mother being just fine at the hospital with her boyfriend.

Kate hums and drags him into her for a moment, before pulling back. She reaches down and helps him out of his shirt, gestures for him to get out of his pants as she slips out of her dress. He slides into the bed as she lays the dress over the armchair by her side table. She reaches to the floor and tugs on a tank top before crawling into bed with him.

He opens his mouth again, suddenly so desperate for the secret—for the strength that gets her through each day. If he had even an ounce of it, maybe he could break himself out of the spiral.

But she says nothing, merely rolls him onto his side and then cuddles into his back, spooning him, her arms sliding under his pillow and around his chest. He covers her hand with his and feels himself take a deep breath.

Her lips tickle the back of his neck as she melds herself against him. "Like this."


	38. Chapter 38

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I like to think AWM doesn't get weird looks for writing in coffee shops. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 38:<strong>

"Castle," Kate warns as he goes to assist his mother through the door to their lobby.

"What?" he mutters back as she cuts him off, allowing Eduardo to get the door for Martha.

"She's not an invalid," she tells him, smiling to Eduardo.

"She was just in the hospital," Castle bites back, watching his mother warily as she walks slowly across the lobby toward the elevator.

"And she's just fine. You need to lay off," Kate continues.

"She's—I'm not—jeez," he decides as they catch up to his mother, who, to her credit, is standing tall by the elevator, dressed to the nines.

"I do have ears," she informs them, seemingly amused by their argument.

Kate blushes and gives his mother an apologetic look, but he's unfazed. "Let's hope those genes make it through. We could have ninja children."

That'll show Kate. Being overbearing his ass. He's just being considerate.

"Richard, I can cross the elevator on my own," his mother tells him, gently pulling her elbow from his grasp.

"Ass," Kate adds as she follows them into the car.

He frowns at her, but she shakes her head, reaching out to take his fingers between hers. He sighs and tries to refrain from glancing at his mother every three seconds. She's fine. She is. She won't be taking a marathon walk or anything for a few days, but she's going to be just fine.

He follows his ladies out of the elevator, watches as Kate handles the keys and opens the door, holding it for his mother. Sure, holding the door open is fine, but a friendly hand is too much?

Kate gives him a look, as though she can hear him whining, and he rolls his eyes. She locks up once he and Martha are inside, and then he feels her at his back, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck before she slides around him and asks Martha if she'd like some water.

"I think I'll just head up, dear. Thank you," his mother says, giving them both a tired smile.

He takes a single step toward the stairs, and his mother sighs, glaring him off. What is it with these women? He just wants to help. What's so wrong about that?

So he watches anxiously as his mother slowly climbs the stairs, her hand tight on the banister. But she makes it.

"Wake me in an hour, would you?" she calls down to him.

"Make it two and you have a deal," he shoots back.

"Fine," Martha says, giving him a wave before she makes her way down the hall.

Jack had been planning to take her home—was taking time off, apparently—but he'd been called in for a small crisis, and wouldn't be free until the evening. Castle had wanted to take care of his mother, but now, now he thinks maybe it would be better for Jack to take her for the rest of the week. Perhaps she'll be more open to help if it isn't from her son.

"Water?" Kate asks, and he turns to look at her, watching him from the kitchen.

"Got anything stronger?" He walks over and slumps down onto one of the bar stools.

She hands him a glass of iced tea and he chuckles, looking over at her where she's resting against the far counter.

"You look like you need a nap," she says softly.

He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, closing his eyes for a moment, somehow exhausted by the simple act of getting his mother from the hospital. It shouldn't be this hard.

"Come on."

He opens his eyes and finds Kate there beside him, gently tugging him up and away from the kitchen. He follows her as she guides him back to their room, lets her sit him down on the bed.

"Alexis will be here in a few hours for dinner with Jack, and you should—you're pale, and I don't think you'll like my foundation."

He gives her a small smile and lies down. She watches him for a moment, then moves to unlace his shoes, her fingers light and soft against his feet. See, he's letting her take care of him. What's so wrong with doing the same with his mother?

"Eyes closed," she chides gently.

"Come 'ere," he says, scooting back across the bed and motioning for her to join him.

"I should do the dishes and probably call my dad," she protests, even as she sits there by his hip, running her hand across his shoulder.

"You don't have to do chores."

"Someone needs to do them."

"Doesn't need to be you." He grabs her hand even as she laughs at him. Why is she laughing at him?

"Castle, who else is going to do the dishes?"

"The—um, I'll—oh," he lets out. Well, yeah, but still. She could— "Nap with me, then I'll do them and you can relax or something."

She eyes him, head tilted to the side. "You aren't going to sleep if I go take care of things, are you?"

He shakes his head emphatically, very close to getting her to lie down with him. "Not a wink."

She sighs and crawls into bed, nudging him to get his legs off their throw blanket so she can haul it over them. He grins and tugs her in, settling himself at her back, his arm over her stomach—a big Kate teddy bear to ward off the nightmares.

"The things I do for you," she lets out, but he can hear her smile.

He leans forward and kisses the back of her head, nudging her hair away so he can breathe her in and nestle his nose into the crook of her neck. She relaxes under his arm and then squirms, working her cell out of her pocket. He watches over her shoulder as she sets an alarm for an hour.

"Sleep," she orders quietly.

"Could do something else," he mumbles into her hair.

"Later. We can unpack my bathroom stuff."

He blinks sluggishly for a moment. "Is your bathroom stuff sexy?"

She laughs, her body trembling under his fingers, rubbing against his chest in a way that's delightful and comfortable and warm. "Could be. Sleep so you find out."

(…)

After dinner finds them all in the living room, his mother reclined on the couch, Alexis on one side, Jack on the other. Castle sits in one of the armchairs, watching as his daughter and mother try to include Jack in a conversation about internet-hyped theatre. It's surprisingly entertaining—makes him feel a little better about the fact that Kate and Alexis do the same to him.

Kate steps out of the office carrying his laptop and navigates her way across the living room with ease, despite the fact that she's got her eyes glued to the screen. She comes to stand in front of him and then looks around him, seemingly surprised to find herself without somewhere to sit down.

He's about to get up to move somewhere where they can share the laptop, but she just plops herself down in his lap, laughing as he huffs.

"Paula just sent me these," she says, shifting until she's cradled in his lap and he can see the screen.

"Oh, wow," he lets out, looking over the mock-ups for the invitations for the Benefit. "You like it?"

She nods and trips her fingers over his shoulder. He's surprised. The cover is a picture of them—a candid someone must have taken at the precinct at one point or another. The photo is black-and-white, and they're figures are mainly silhouettes, but it's obviously them; they're standing side by side, backs to the camera, staring at a blank murder board.

_The NYPD and Black Pawn Publishing invite you to attend_

_The Write a Better Story Benefit_

_in support of the Johanna Beckett Scholarship_

"The Write a Better Story Benefit?" he asks softly.

She meets his eyes and nods slowly, looking bold and shy at once, as if his—as if his approval means something to her.

"I thought," she pauses and glances toward the rest of the family, who are making absolutely no effort to appear otherwise engaged. She laughs and then smiles as she looks back at him. "I thought it was fitting. My mother didn't write like you do, but she was trying to do the same, to rewrite the endings of other people's stories."

"I—uh, wow," he manages.

"And since it's being thrown by Black Pawn, and we discussed using our limited press to promote the benefit, I just thought that it should encompass that—you, us."

"Kate," he whispers. "I'm honored. I didn't—thank you."

She shakes her head and leans in to brush her lips over his cheek. "I love you," she tells his skin before pulling back to look over at his family.

"I think that's wonderful," Alexis tells them. "When is it?"

"Paula's thinking the week before Christmas. Invites need to go out the beginning of next week. She thinks we won't turn a huge profit this year, but it's better to get it set up as an annual rather than wait a year for a bigger bang," Kate explains.

He and Paula went back and forth about that, but he won't mention it to Kate, especially considering that he was the one pulling for a later date, a longer invitation period. But seeing how happy it's made his fiancée, how much it means, what she named it—he agrees with Paula now. It's worth it, if for nothing else than the closure it can give Kate, can give both of them.

"Do you have a dress yet?" Martha asks. Alexis perks up beside her, and he can already see a plan forming in his daughter's eyes.

"Lanie and I tried, but struck out," Kate admits.

"Perhaps we can make that an outing," his mother suggests.

"We should get it soon, in case it needs alterations," Alexis adds.

"Yours too," Kate shoots back.

Alexis' eyes widen and he opens his mouth, about to tell her how utterly ridiculous it is to think that she wouldn't be invited, but Kate beats him to it.

"We shouldn't match, but something complimentary, you know? For family pictures. There'll probably be a bit of that, right?" Kate continues, looking back at him, ignoring the way Alexis' mouth has just flopped open.

That's one way to console his kid, he supposes, watching as both Martha and Jack chuckle quietly. "Probably," he agrees. "Paula hasn't mentioned what you've discussed in terms of publicity, and the types of publicity."

"Well, we're not auctioning you off this time," she says easily, winking at his mother.

"We made a lot of money for MADT on that date," Martha exclaims.

"What date?" Jack interjects.

"Oh, Gram auctioned Dad off for charity a few years ago. Was that the date you came back from wearing your soup?" Alexis chimes in.

He groans and Kate lets out a loud laugh, jostling the laptop and digging her delightful but bony butt into his leg. "Yes, it was," he grumbles. "You could have helped me."

"Oh, come on, Castle. How could I have passed that up?"

He glares at her, but his mother and daughter are giggling together, a flush on Martha's cheeks, and he gives up, conceding defeat to a delighted Kate. She hefts the laptop onto the coffee table and then readjusts in his lap, brushing her fingers over his shoulder, as if that undoes the torture of that horrible date nearly five years ago.

"Why did you get covered in soup?" Jack asks, but his eyes are on Martha, clearly enjoying her merriment—a proof of life and vivacity.

Castle can so relate. "My date was extraordinarily clumsy. Knocked down a waiter, and in the process, sent our table flying. Thus, the soup covered suit—it couldn't be saved."

The group laughs and he takes it. Maybe he can't help his mother recover, but he can help her laugh. And that's important, right? Laughing, going on with life, being normal, like the hospital never happened. All that's changed is that his mother holds a glass of water instead of wine. Come to think of it, that's a huge thing.

"Hey," Kate says softly while the others recover.

"Hi," he mumbles back, tearing his eyes away from his mother—his mother, who has her own alcohol issues that might just be fixed by this new diet. His mother, sober. He can't remember a single time in his life when his mother didn't drink at least a glass of wine a day—hardly too much, but often not so little.

Kate follows his gaze to his mother's water glass, and he feels her fingers tighten on his shoulder, and her lips find his cheek a moment later. He squeezes her knee and she smiles against his cheek.

"So, if not a ride-along or a date, what kind of stuff will you be doing?" Alexis asks, bringing them out of their little bubble.

"We'll take pictures for a two page spread in the Ledger," Kate tells them, relaxing against him. "The article should focus on my mother's case, her struggle, and the value of the work she did. Paula says there'll be some stuff about me, and your Dad in there too, and it'll close with information for giving donations."

She glances at him, and he smiles, impressed. It sounds like a good plan—a way to up donations even with the late invitations. And it makes it accessible, known, so students will know it exists once there's enough money—the whole point, really.

"And you'll take pictures for other papers as well," Martha says.

Kate nods. "I've been advised to practice my smile, and, I quote, 'find a pose where I don't look put-upon.'"

"Really?" he groans. "I'm gonna kill her."

Kate laughs and shakes her head. "No, she's right. I was put upon, at the time."

"That reporter was pretty irritating," he agrees, lifting his head to meet her eyes.

"By you, you dolt," she says, flicking his ear. "The reporter was annoying, but you posing with those strippers was worse."

"Strippers? At the precinct. Da-ad!" Alexis exclaims.

"Models. They were models," he says quickly while Martha laughs and Jack regards them all with mild horror and curiosity. "They were models," he repeats, looking at Kate. "And they told me to."

"Uh-huh."

(…)

He looks down at the photo album, running his fingers across the lightly worn brown leather. The pillows are piled at his back, and the soft sounds of the sink fill the room as he sits in bed, staring at this album.

He takes a breath and opens it to stare at the photo of his mother at the hospital, cradling her infant son to her chest.

He turns the page and smiles at his toddler self, following after his mother as she walked an empty stage, a script in her hand.

Another page, and he's seven, peeking out from behind a curtain as his mother gives an audition. He doesn't think she got the part, and has no idea how she got the picture, but he can see the sand bag that fell on him still swinging in place above his head when the photo was taken. He was under for two days for that, nearly gave his mother a heart attack.

He feels the bed dip and shifts over to make room for Kate as she curls up beside him, reaching out toward the album. She doesn't move it though.

"Do you mind if I look?" she murmurs.

He shifts the album so it rests on their thighs and curls his arm around her, a silent invitation. She presses a kiss to his naked shoulder and traces the edge of the page with her fingers.

"You were a cute little guy," she says quietly.

He grins a little. He does. He was a cute little kid; it's true. He turns the page and laughs, half embarrassment, half amusement.

There he is, swimming in one of his mother's costume dresses as she kneels on the floor, fiddling with the bodice. He's glaring at the camera, hands clenched in little fists at his sides. He must be about eight years old, and he remembers it—remembers Ramona, his mother's friend, who took the picture. She laughed so hard and he nearly pitched a fit.

"Oh, God," Kate giggles. "You were so cute."

"Promise me that you will never use our son as a dress mannequin."

She laughs harder, but nods, tapping his little face in the picture. "I have Alexis for that."

He smiles. His children will have a mother. A mother and a father, together, happy—something he couldn't give Alexis, something his mother couldn't give to him, something Kate didn't get to keep.

"Hey," she says, bumping his shoulder with her chin.

"They get two," he manages. Before, when he thought of Alexis, he was so grateful for Kate—to give his children a mother that would stay. But now, now it's for him too, for her, for all of them.

"Two," she repeats.

"Parents. Two parents the whole time."

"Castle," she says gently, and he realizes he's gotten worked up, is tense there in their bed.

"I just—none of us had that. Nobody. Alexis lost Meredith. I never had a father. And your mom—none of us."

Kate frowns and takes the album from him, sliding it back onto her bedside before she shifts so she can look at him. She raises a hand to cradle his jaw. He turns his cheek into her palm, pressing his lips to her skin.

"It's been a long day," he says by way of explanation.

"Oh, no, you don't get to bow out of that," she says firmly and he laughs, startled. "You don't get to open that up and walk away from it. How the hell am I supposed to sleep now?"

"I—sorry?" he says sheepishly.

"Not—oh, you idiot," she grouses, tugging on him until they're both sprawled on the bed.

She rolls away and turns out the lights. He waits, letting her arrange them how she likes, until she's snuggled up beside him, both of them staring up at the ceiling.

"Things our kids get that we didn't have—barring freak accidents and police…issues. Go."

"Do not even go there," he growls, gripping at the hand she's slid into his.

"Just saying," she whispers, bringing their hands to her lips. "Go, Castle."

Now he just wants to roll her up and keep her close, because there is no certainty at all that his kids will have two parents. Either one of them could die in the field.

"Save it for when I go back to the precinct," she says, nudging his leg with hers. "Go."

He grumbles but pushes it away, gives in to this thing he started—him and his big mouth. "Okay, um, two parents at graduation."

She hums and squeezes his hand, wriggling a little next to him. "Two parents at the wedding."

This is starting to feel less fun, less joyous than he meant it to be; granted, he didn't really think they'd ever actually talk about this like this.

"One high school," he decides. That's not so sad. Sure, some of the boarding schools were lonely, but he did get kicked out for some pretty spectacular pranks, never mind the fact that for a bunch of them, he was trying to get kicked out.

"One home," she puts in. "Well, two. Wait, three? My dad's cabin would be nice for a Christmas some time—or camping."

"So, three homes. Average, for a little kid, you think?" he says, laughing as she digs her elbow lightly into his ribs. "Cool though—woods and ocean. Did you travel a lot as a kid?"

"Just to the cabin. I think we went to Cape Cod once too. But they both worked too much to take long vacations very often," Kate says, and he feels her shoulder rise and fall against his.

"Can we add travel, then? Across the country, out of the country? I didn't do any of that until it was on my own money," he says, struck by the image of them with kids, going to Disney land, the Caribbean, touring Castles with the Castles in Europe.

"Sounds good," she whispers. "No daycare."

"No daycare," he agrees slowly. Never—he never plans on putting his kids in daycare, or giving them a nanny. But that would mean—

"Once they're in preschool, maybe you consult every so often," she says softly. "But, not now. Let's not do that now either."

"Okay," he agrees. This is easy. That is hard. And they don't need more that's hard now—more hard choices of this or that. "Uh, oh! Home cooked meals. Every night. Most nights."

She laughs. "Yeah. And at the table, everyone at the table, no work, no files."

"Did your mom read at the table?" he asks.

"They both did sometimes," she admits. "Not often, but those are the ones I remember more, you know? One of our last dinners together at home, all three of us just sat there together, doing work, and I—not for us."

"No work at the table," he agrees, turning his head to watch her as she looks up at the ceiling, eyes far away.

He's had a thoroughly idyllic picture of her childhood in his head, and he knows it was wonderful, but perhaps it wasn't so perfect. Of course it wasn't; nothing ever is. But it's real now, tangible, the little things she would do differently—normal things she would change, because everyone has them, murdered mother or not.

"Knowing their grandparents," he says quietly.

She sucks in a breath and squeezes his hand. "All three," she says. "Visiting my mom should—right? We should do that."

"If you want to. I'll take your lead on that," he promises.

"They should know her," Kate decides. "Did you not know yours?"

"I don't even know my father," he says, wincing as it comes out, somehow bitter and sad at once.

She turns and curls into him, reaching her arm across his chest as she rests her head on the crook of his shoulder. Her knee slides over his thigh and he turns his head to breathe her in.

"No alcoholism," Kate says on a breath.

"God, no," he agrees as he runs his fingers up and down her arm, staring over her head at the dresser, where all of their things are scattered together. "Open door policy."

She presses her lips to his skin. "Need more on that one."

"They can always come in at night," he explains. "Disruptive, but I don't—I almost never had anyone here when Alexis was little, or ever, really. But sometimes when I was a kid, the door was locked and I didn't want to bother her, but I, uh," he breaks off, embarrassed or choked up, or something he can't quite describe.

"You needed your mom," Kate says softly.

"And she was there, most of the time. I just, I had nightmares sometimes and the locked door was just hard," he gets out.

"They can always come in," she promises. "You'll probably regret that at one point or another," she adds, rolling her hips against him once.

He laughs. "I'm sure. But I'd rather that than the locked door."

"They don't sleep with us though," she says slowly, hesitantly.

"No, no," he agrees. "No, we go back with them. It worked with Alexis—made her room safe. A snooze is fine though. They're so cute in the big bed."

"They are, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. All starfished in the middle, with messy hair and these little feet. So cute. And then they hide under the blankets and think you can't see them, giggling like little spies."

"They do that too?"

He glances down at her and finds her watching him, amused and besotted. "I'm a sap," he defends, a little indignant.

"Color me surprised," she tosses back, letting her face grow into a grin. "It's cute."

"I'm a sap, and I'm cute. Great," he says, looking back up at the ceiling.

"Silly, embarrassing dad."

"Me? Probably am, yeah," he admits.

"No, I mean, I want that, for them. All the way through, from when they love it to when they want to walk ten paces ahead of us, to when they want you to be that for their kids," she clarifies. "Just—just be their dad the whole time."

"I promise," he says, bending his neck to press his lips to her forehead. "I'm only going to get more embarrassing with age."

"I'm sure," she says, and he huffs while she laughs, relaxing against him.

"Mom who doesn't leave for months for work," he says softly, dual images of his mother and Meredith giving him a kiss and walking out the door.

"Just for the day," Kate says. "And you guys can always come bring me coffee," she adds, smiling into his shoulder.

Oh, he wants that—wants to bring little hands and feet and pink tinged cheeks to the precinct with coffee and cookies for Mommy and the uncles. "Family breakfasts, once a week. Either home or we go out," he adds.

"Yeah," she says, and he hears it in her voice; the picture that's in his head is in hers too, of the two of them, and Alexis, and a little girl or a little boy—everyone around the table, laughing in pajamas and covered in syrup.

"It'll be good," he decides, his throat tight with it—with the story in his head they'll get to make come true.

"It'll be great," she corrects before she arches up to find his lips in a soft, tired kiss.

He may not have a father, and she may not have a mother, and their remaining parents might not be perfect, but they have them. And they get to take everything that was good, and all that was bad, and choose to give their children what is best.

They get to write a better story.


	39. Chapter 39

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Going back to college in the morning; all I own is a disturbing number of neon-colored plastic organizers. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 39:<strong>

"Is that really any of your concern?" he groans into the phone, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes," Gina says testily, and he can practically hear that vein pulsing over her left eye.

"Kate and I haven't even discussed it," he tries.

"It's not a difficult question, Richard," she snipes back. "Soon to be married, or recently engaged? Personally, I'm surprised you didn't drag her by the hair to Vegas."

"I'll hang up on you," he lets out, so very done with this conversation. "And what does it matter?"

"Paula foisted the paper notices about the Gala on me, and I just want to get it right."

"Recently engaged," he decides as he doodles on a notepad—something that looks suspiciously like Gina being dangled over a tank of sharks.

"Was that so hard?"

"Was that so necessary? Who cares, Gina?"

"The press. I assume you realize there will be press at the wedding," she says stuffily.

He sits up straight and glares across the room. "There will be no such thing." She sighs at him across the phone. "She put a ban on it?"

"I put a ban on it," he says, indignant.

"That's a change." Oh, God, no. He is not having this conversation. "You didn't have an issue with—"

"Gina, I had no say in our wedding preparations," he cuts in. "And Kate is not my Publicist. She's not interested in being in the public eye all the time, and I'm not interested in having my wedding be anywhere other than my wedding."

"Where will your wedding be?" she presses.

Well, it's better than the publicity questions.

"Not sure yet," he says as he opens his laptop.

"No date. No location. You sure you're actually getting married?"

"Just because she doesn't have an organized fantasy binder doesn't mean she doesn't want to marry me," he says off-handedly as he scrolls through his email.

They could just CC him on the emails so Kate doesn't have to forward them. And then he won't have six in his inbox, various titles like, "Flower Arrangements," and "Donation Cards," and "No, you can't get me a dress," –wait, that's just from Kate. Oh, come on, Why not?

"Or she's not really ready to commit," Gina offers blithely.

"Shut up," falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

"Excuse me?"

"She's living with me," he says stiffly. "Something you refused to do until you had a ring on your finger."

When did this get to them arguing about their failed marriage?

Gina sighs on the other end of the line. "Can we not?"

He bites back his favored, _I didn't start this_, and curls his hand around the edge of his desk. "Fine. Now, do you have everything you need?"

"Rick," she protests.

"You wanna attack my engagement, or argue about our marriage?" So he's not so great at letting go.

There's a pause. "You guys are good together," she admits. "You handled that article like pros, and managed to keep your—enthusiasm, out of the papers."

"Glowing reviews," he mumbles, but they're back on even footing. It's always rocky, this weird thing they've become.

"You want glowing reviews, talk to your other ex-wife."

"Please tell me you two have stopped emailing," he says.

She laughs—but really. "That's none of your business," she replies.

"The hell it is," he growls, but he knows he's got nothing.

"I promise we won't include Kate?"

"Fine," he says, defeated as she laughs. But at least she's laughing.

"Really, no press at all?" she asks after a moment.

"None. Seriously. She's a cop. Outside of this benefit, she really doesn't need her face in the paper."

"Paula's not going to like this either," she tells him, all sass and superiority.

"Good thing I'm not marrying either of you," he says easily.

"You're an ass," she lets out.

"Thank you."

He hears her laugh across the line and he smiles softly. They crashed and burned. Twice. But she's a good woman—an infuriating woman.

The door to the loft opens and he listens as Kate and Alexis traipse inside in a fit of giggles.

"Gina, I have to go. Ask Paula if you have questions for Kate."

"You don't trust me to talk to her?"

"I really don't need all of the wives in a club," he says.

"Oh, please, she'd kill Meredith before anything could be said."

He laughs as Kate appears in the doorway to the office, cocking her head in question. "I've got to go. Email Kate," he relents. "Paula's got it."

"Bye, Rick."

"Bye."

He hangs up and scrubs a hand across his face as Kate walks into the office and around his desk. "Can you make me a promise?"

"Kinda thought I already had," she says, wiggling her ring at him as she leans down to greet him in a kiss.

He grins against her lips and reaches out to run his fingers over her hips as she stands there in front of him, bent to reach his mouth.

"What promise?" she whispers as she pulls away and stands up, running a hand through his hair.

"Don't ever become friends with Gina and Meredith." She blinks at him and then raises an eyebrow. Oh, wow, yeah, this was a bad idea.

"Why?"

"I—uh—they—Gina's mean," he decides. "Forget it."

"What, do they have some sort of Richard Castle exes club?" she asks, and he's about ready to chuck a book at his own head.

What idiot actually asks his current fiancée anything about his ex wives, especially when it's wives, plural. Shit.

"They don't," she lets out. "Oh, God, really?"

"Apparently," he mumbles. "But, ah, forget I said anything."

She just looks at him and he swallows when he sees that he's struck a nerve—a little one, but still. "Alexis and I are hungry," she says. "I was thinking Chinese. We don't feel like cooking, and I'm sure you have things to take care of."

He nods and she bobs her head once before turning and leaving the room. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He's such an idiot. Such a huge idiot.

And still, idiot that he is, it takes him about ten minutes to haul himself out of his chair and go in search of his silent fiancée. It was a slip, a mistake, and one of those things he's sure Cosmo would warn against, but it wasn't a huge thing. She must, absolutely must know that he doesn't lump her in with Meredith and Gina—actually doesn't lump any of them together.

But Kate isn't just the next wife. She's the only always.

He spots his daughter on the couch, reading a textbook, and detours to say hello. He leans over her and kisses her head, chuckling when she startles. "Hi," he offers.

"Hi," she says, looking up at him. "Kate's in the workout room, I think," she says. "Looked a little off."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Did you guys have a good time?"

Alexis grins. "We got dresses, and got them to the seamstress; they'll be the right length and stuff in time for the Gala."

Well, that's a load off. Kate was starting to think she'd never find the dress. "Good," he tells his kid. His magic, awesome, Kate-dress-finding kid. "Glad it went well."

"Go make up with Kate," Alexis chides, and he's reminded that she's not such a little kid anymore.

"Going," he says and spins around to jog up the stairs to the sound of his daughter's laughter.

Can't be too bad if Alexis is laughing. He just—he needs more space, between Gina's vitriol and seeing Kate, because his mouth runs away. He needs to work on that. He needs to be more than he is, for he is so less than perfect.

He pauses in the doorway and watches as she battles with his standing bag, her long hair tied back as she goes at it in sweats and a sports bra she must have left up here. She's graceful but powerful—scary. This is a woman who can take down almost anyone, and do it in heels. She's strong and stoic and solid.

So she shouldn't worry. She is all there is.

"You gonna watch or steady this for me?" she grunts out.

He jolts into the room and takes a stance behind the bag, picking up on how the thing is rocking on the floor. She keeps going, barely sparing him a glance as he bolsters the red, weighted bag. It rocks against him with every kick and punch.

He stays silent, simply watches and feels as she beats it out of her, hoping it's not his face she sees on the bag. She's stronger than he realized—more ready than maybe either of them thought. There's laser focus in her eyes and her breathing is so steady. She said they'd get through the benefit and then talk—talk to Burke, talk to Gates, to each other.

She's ready.

He might not be.

After what seems an eternity, she stops kicking and bounces in place. He watches as she takes a few deep breaths and slows to a rock, opening her eyes to meet his.

"You make a good bag weight," she offers.

He laughs. "Glad to know I'm good for something."

She huffs and stretches her arms over her head, arching onto her toes. He watches as she unstraps her hands and turns the gloves over, squeezing them with slightly red fingers.

"I'm sorry," he offers.

She nods and keeps staring at the gloves. "Thanks."

He shakes his head and steps toward her. "The wives club is not for you," he continues. She frowns but he steps into her, keeps talking, runs a hand down her arm. "There will be no wives club for you, because you will always be my wife. My only and last."

She looks up at him and he sees it all there, the insecurity, the love, the pride, the fear—all the things his past has made him reflected by her changing eyes.

"Better be," she says firmly.

He wraps her up, holding tight even if she tries to squirm away, her mutters of, "Sweaty," going unnoticed. He presses his cheek to her hair and she slowly melts into him, head on his shoulder.

"You're an ass sometimes," she tells his neck.

"Always and only," he says. "Even when I'm an ass."

She nips at his neck and then soothes his skin with her hot tongue. She pulls back then and meets his eyes. "What did Gina want?"

He narrows his eyes and she grins at him. She's so evil. "To ask me about our announcements for the paper, and, I quote, whether we were, "recently engaged, or soon to be married." Apparently there's a difference."

Kate shakes her head and rolls her eyes, reaching up to smooth down his hair where he's mussed it up, worrying over his own stupidity. "Recently engaged?"

"That's what I said, yeah," he assures her.

She considers him for a moment as her hands fall to his shoulders. "Should we pick a date?"

"I figured we'd get through the benefit and then the holidays, and worry about it after that."

"Worry about it?" she repeats, giving him a look.

He can't win today, can he? "Add to our stress levels with flower arrangements and place settings and who can come when," he trips out quickly. "Until then, we can just enjoy this," he continues, leaning down to press his lips to her flushed forehead, traces of sweat and the scent of her shampoo flooding his senses.

"I think you should be mute for the rest of the night," she whispers and he looks down to see her smirking at him. "You're oh for two."

He nods and mimes zipping his lips shut. She laughs and arches up on her toes to press her mouth to his. He feels her tongue sweeping long his lower lip, but keeps his clamped shut. After a moment, she huffs at him.

"Castle," she says, her teeth scraping along his bottom lip.

He makes a muffled sound until she pulls away. He points to his lips and she groans, reaching up to drag her fingers across his mouth.

"Open up, big guy," she murmurs, and he nearly buckles as her mouth finds his, hot and swift, her tongue delving inside to find his.

This woman is going to kill him.

"Chinese is here!" Alexis calls up to them. "Hope you made up, Dad."

Kate groans a laugh against him and pulls away, sinking back down to look up at him. "Made up?"

"She might have realized I'd been a jerk," he admits.

Kate grins and reaches up to wrap her arms around him. "Only and last," she says as she presses her lips to his ear. "Now, come on. I need to towel off."

She spins around and saunters away, but he follows, reaching out to palm her rear as she clears the doorway. She turns and smirks at him before she stops to press her lips to his again, nearly tripping him as he crashes into her.

"You're gonna love the dress," she tells him as they pull apart.

"Do I get to see it before the Gala?"

"Nope," she says easily, and he laughs as she drags him down the stairs.

"Tease," he tosses out as they clear the stairs and she steers him toward the table.

"Ass," she says back, a grin on her lips as she saunters away.

He watches her go, staring at her ass as she swings through the atrium to his bedroom. It's a minute before he realizes he's standing in the middle of his loft, watching a closed door.

"I guess you made up?" Alexis pipes up, not quite confident in it.

He turns back to her and smiles. "We did."

She nods and looks from him to the door to his bedroom. "You sure?"

He laughs and walks around to toss an arm around her shoulders. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that ass is synonymous with honey?"

"Like sweetheart is synonymous with bullshit?" Kate calls through the office.

"She's a ninja," he whispers to his daughter.

"You're loud, Castle," Kate announces as she emerges, now clad in a pair of low-riding sweats and a light sweater.

"I'm not that loud," he protests as they sit down at the table, opening cartons and passing food around.

"Sure," Kate dismisses, sharing a look with his daughter, who seems to be enjoying their interchange.

"You're one to talk," he says. "There have been multiple times when I've had to—ouch! Jeez." Her heel digs into the top of his foot and he grimaces.

"Behave," Kate admonishes.

He looks at Alexis and finds her with her nose scrunched up, deftly avoiding both his eyes and Kate's. "Hey, I didn't mean—get your minds out of the gutter!"

Kate laughs and Alexis shoots him a cheeky look. He really can't win, at all, ever. He sighs and goes back to his food as his girls start to chat about Alexis' upcoming Thanksgiving break.

"We should go to the Hamptons," Alexis suggests, pulling him out of his pouting.

"That's—an idea. Could be really fun," he agrees, tossing it around in his head. "Maybe see if the guys would join us, Lanie, your Dad," he continues, looking over at Kate. "Big fire in the fireplace. That kitchen is perfect, oh, and there's that market in town, with the artisan meats."

Kate nods slowly and looks between him and his daughter. "That sounds lovely," she says softly.

"We don't have to," Alexis says immediately. "I just thought, since this is our, um, first Thanksgiving, you know, we could—we really don't have to."

He smiles at his kid—his slightly awkward, adorable kid—and then looks to his fiancée, who is giving Alexis the same soft look.

"No, Alexis, it sounds great," she promises. "I'm, yeah, it sounds wonderful. We should do it."

Alexis nods slowly and smiles as she goes back to her food. He looks over at Kate and finds her watching his daughter, a tentative smile on her face. After a moment, she looks over at him and her smiles grows. Her fingers dance over his free hand and he twines them together, squeezing her hand in question.

She shakes her head and reaches out for more fried rice. "So, this beach house," she begins with a small smirk.

"Have you never been?" Alexis asks, cocking her head. "I could have swo—oh." She blushes scarlet and stuffs half an egg roll into her mouth.

Kate laughs and rubs her thumb along his pinky finger. "Never made it out, no," she tells Alexis. "You go every summer right, other than—well, other than this one?"

Alexis nods and swallows. "It's great. It'll be too cold to swim, but Dad's right; the fire's great, and we have so many movies there. Dad's room, uh, your room, is so pretty too. It has this huge view of the ocean. I have the same one, but it's not the same, you know? And I steal his, ah, your tub, sometimes."

"We need to make you a key," Castle adds as they both try to keep from laughing. His kid is so flippin' cute sometimes.

"Oh, I don't need one," she says immediately. Then her eyes widen. "Oh, because—I didn't really think about that."

"S'kind of the Castle second home," Alexis chimes in. "You know, you live here, so you live..." she trails off as Kate sits there, completely still with her mouth slightly parted.

Castle taps gently on her index finger, and Kate slowly turns to look at him. "Your food's getting cold," he says after a moment.

She startles and then lets out a laugh. "Yours too."

He grins and the three of them return to eating, sharing small, nearly shy smiles every so often. It just never came up—that living with him meant getting the beach house too. Hell, marrying him gets her his fortune. He should call his lawyer, make sure he's got her in his will.

Didn't he do that though, sometime over last summer? Maybe before. Oh, yeah, after they arrested Lockwood for the first time.

Ah, jeez, she's not going to like that.

Then again, she doesn't need to know.

"Are you trying to mind-meld with that glass?" Kate asks.

He blinks and looks over at her, noticing Alexis watching him as well. "No, no, just, um, envisioning Thanksgiving?"

"I'll take it," she accepts with a little laugh. "I'm sure my dad would love to come."

"He should," Alexis insists. "Do you see anyone else for the holidays?"

Kate shakes her head. "No, both sets of my grandparents are gone, and my dad's family is in Florida. We exchange cards."

"Oh," Alexis says quietly. She takes a moment and then gives Kate a bright smile. "So this is your first big Thanksgiving in a while then."

Kate nods and returns her smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

Alexis beams. "Me too."

"I assume Graham is going back to see his family over break?" Kate asks after a few minutes.

Alexis bobs her head. "I think so. He couldn't go back again for his-the Canadian one, you know? But we have the week; he should be there for that."

"Yeah," Kate murmurs. "That's good. Family's good."

She glances over at him and he sees it there in her eyes. Family is good. Family is good for her, for her father.

(…)

"That doesn't look like sleeping," he says as he comes out of the bathroom.

She shakes her head and pulls a knee up to her chest as she stares at the wall across from the bed. "Not tired."

"Not tired, or not able to sleep?" he wonders as he sinks onto the bed beside her, scooting to lean against the pillows propped against the headboard.

She shrugs and turns to look at him, tugging the falling strap of her camisole back up her shoulder. "My lease runs out around Thanksgiving," she offers.

"Regrets?" he asks.

She reaches out and pinches him as he laughs. "No," she huffs.

He grins and slides up to her, tossing his arm over her shoulders and sneaking his free hand over to cup her bent knee. "Then?"

"We should really think about when we want to get married," she says quietly.

He watches her, confused. "We can," he says slowly. "Don't have to."

"It would be nice to be married by next Thanksgiving," she says after a long pause.

"Yeah?"

She meets his eyes and smiles, reaching up to cup his cheek, her thumb gliding across his cheekbone. "It's just paper, but I want—" she breaks off and watches him for a moment, her eyes combing over his face. "I want to have family holidays."

"We're family now," he insists, even though he understands. "Just—you know, so you know."

She nods and leans up to press her lips to his in a gentle kiss. "I know. But I want more family," she says against his mouth. "And I don't want to be pregnant in my wedding dress."

His face splits in a grin he can't contain, and he rolls over her, bringing them both down onto the bed. She laughs and reaches up to smooth down his hair, letting her hands fall to curl along his neck.

"Getting antsy?" he asks, feeling like happiness is practically oozing out of his pores.

She simply smiles. "I imagine they're even cuter when they're little," she says by way of response.

He blinks and then chuckles, bending to feather his lips over her face. "Yeah, they are."

"So—yeah, we should, yeah," she decides, laughing as he chuckles into her neck.

"We should practice," he says against her skin, pausing to lave at her pulse and then trail up to her ear.

She sighs and shifts beneath him. "Good plan," she mumbles before guiding him back to her lips.

He moves down her body, hands busy trying to drag her tank top off. She pushes on him and sits them up, ridding herself of her top and then returning the favor with his shirt. Her hands wander as she nips at his jaw.

"Like your ass," she whispers as she slides her hands beneath his sweats.

"Even when I'm an ass?" he breathes as she lies back, tugging him with her.

"Especially when you're an ass—infuriating really."

He grins and it takes her a considerable effort to wipe it off his face. Ultimately, as always, she's up for the challenge.


	40. Chapter 40

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: All I have are extremely entertaining roommates.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 40:<strong>

He follows her progress as she wanders the living room, moving from picture to picture, book to book. Her fingers trail along the edge of his bookshelves, and he wonders if they're dusty. She coughs lightly and tosses him a small smile, catching him in the act of leaning against the oak banister, watching her.

"It's gorgeous," she decides, taking quiet, soft steps to meet him by the back of the couch. "Did you design it?"

He shakes his head and glances around. "I got to pick the colors, but it was all already here."

"It suits you."

"Suits you too," he tosses back.

She shakes her head and arches up to press her lips to his, the buttons of her deep, green shirt snagging on the buttons of his. He steadies her as she sways and rocks back, eyes focused over his shoulder at the choppy ocean.

"Come on," he whispers eagerly, taking her hand to guide her out onto the deck through the sliding glass doors.

He grins at her intake of breath. Her fingers tighten in his and then she's the one dragging him up to the edge of the deck, teetering on the stairs. She gazes out at the rough ocean at the end of their long private stretch of beach.

Clouds roll low across the water, casting it in grays and deep navies. White breakers crash along the sand and the trees to either side of the beach sway with the wind.

Thunder rumbles from somewhere, and Kate crowds closer, releasing his hand to glide hers along his back, tucking herself into his side.

"Wow," she breathes, her cheek against his shoulder. "You can have this everyday and you stay in Manhattan?"

He laughs, startled, and feels her smiling into him. "The city has its charms," he protests, sneaking his hand down to squeeze her rear.

She slaps his hip but puts up no other protest. He grins, can't help himself.

"It's just—it's yeah," she decides.

"It's yeah?"

"Shut up."

He closes his mouth and watches the ocean with her for a long time, just standing there on his deck. Eventually, she pulls away and stretches, rolling her neck.

"Do we need to do anything to get the house ready?" she asks, looking over at him, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, body relaxed.

"Should start the fire. Alexis and Mother will complain like crazy if it's not toasty tonight."

Kate laughs and smiles at him, her eyes crinkling. "Let's get some firewood," she agrees.

"I got it," he says, waving her off as he walks down the stairs and across the small swatch of tiles that leads to the pool.

She follows him, laughing a little as they pass his admittedly over-sized pool. "Jeez, didn't spare any expense did you?"

He turns and looks over his shoulder at her. "Like you're not looking forward to swimming in it come summer."

She shrugs and he has half a mind to dump her in it now. Then again, he wants to maintain all of his limbs and have some sex this vacation. Best not.

She crowds against his back as they come up on the little pool shed. He opens the door and walks inside, huffing when she breaks away to help him move the tarp covering their firewood.

She immediately grabs six logs and he sighs, watching as she begins making her way back to the house. Apparently, chivalry is dead. He takes his own haul, eight for him, because he's the man, or so he says. Doesn't have anything to do with having about six inches on her in every direction. Not at all.

She passes him in the doorway to the living room, her logs already deposited neatly in the basket by the fire. She smiles, happy and light, and he feels his mild irritation melt away. He doesn't mind, really, that she's helping. He just wants to pamper her.

As she flounces through the doorway he shrugs and removes his over shirt, noting the dirty stains already collecting on the light blue fabric. Ah well. She glances back at him as she reaches the edge of the deck, and he sees her eyes darken, all the way across and through the doors.

She sends him a little smirk and then jogs down the stairs, leaving him to follow after her.

She's still there when he reaches the shed again, struggling to remove a few stickier pieces. She runs her eyes over his figure and he feels himself puffing up his chest.

"Need some help there?" he asks, laughing as she scowls at him. She's ogling him. What does she expect?

She starts to shake her head but then huffs as the logs refuse to budge. He takes a step toward her to help but her logs tumble as he accidentally bumps her hip. She stumbles back and hits a shovel leaning against the wall. It falls with a clatter and she turns a heavy glare on him, opening her mouth.

He winces, waiting, and then yelps as a sharp sting pierces his cheek. "Shit," he lets out, covering it with his hand, only to get stung on the back of his palm, and then his other hand, and his arm, and his other arm.

"Castle, move!" Kate exclaims, grabbing at his shirt to haul him out of the shed.

She closes the doors with an agility that shocks him, dazed as he is. Everything stings, burning. She checks herself over for a brief moment and then hurries to him, where he realizes he's swaying.

"Oh, Castle," she lets out, reaching up to tentatively cup his cheek.

He blinks at her, feeling his right cheek swelling up. He swallows thickly. Everything—everything—stings like hell. "What happened?" he asks.

"Wasps. I think there's a nest in the shed," she explains. "Are you allergic?"

"What?"

"Are you allergic?" she asks, louder, a hint of panic in her voice.

"No," he says quickly. "No, just, ah, hurts."

She looks him over, her eyes wide and fingers gentle as she traces his arms, avoiding the huge swelling bumps he can already feel. He's not allergic—was tested. But this is going to suck. He always swells too much, and it makes him tired, and his kid is coming, and—

"Come on," she says softly. She goes to take his hand and then stops herself.

He looks down and groans at the two lumps already red and angry on his hand—both of his hands. She wraps her arm around his waist instead, forcing his arm up over her shoulder. He hisses at the movement, but elevating it isn't a bad idea.

She guides him back into the house and over to the couch. He lets her settle him into the soft green cushions, trying to keep his groans to himself. She looks so worried already. She crouches down, her hands on his knees, and he looks down at her, even though he can feel his right eye losing sight.

"Are you sure you're not allergic?" she asks.

"I just swell," he offers. "Tested two years ago." Because this happened when he was up here with Gina. It's the same nest. Oh, he's an idiot.

"Okay," she murmurs. "Sit tight."

He watches as she stands and hurries into his kitchen. He listens, trying not to move as she opens cabinets and the door to the freezer. Man, this is painful. What happened the last time?

Right. Gina took him to the hospital. There was testing involved, and then they came back, and there was a lot of groaning on both sides. Gina was squeamish, and he needed help—had been shirtless that time. God, that was horrible. She slept in a different room—couldn't bare the smell of whatever goop they gave her at the hospital.

Damn. And now his trip with Kate is ruined, and Alexis will freak out, and Jim and Lanie, Javier, Kevin, Jenny, his mother—

"Hey."

He looks up and finds her standing in front of him, holding a Ziploc of ice and a few dish towels. She turns on the lamp by his side and kneels down. She nudges on his knees so she can settle in the vee of his legs, placing the open bag of ice next to his thigh.

She inspects each of his stings, seven in all. No wonder he's in pain. She presses on a few, checking for broken stingers, he guesses. Does that happen? Shit, it hurts. He's pretty sure checking his cheek made him cry, but she doesn't mention it. She just rubs his left cheek, and presses her forehead to his chest for a moment before reaching inside the bag to grab an ice cube, wrapping it in a towel before she hands it to him.

"Cheek first," she says quietly.

He takes the ice, surprised, and holds it to his cheek, wincing at the cold and the sting of the cloth against his skin. She rubs her fingers over his knee and then wraps another piece. She shuffles closer and holds the ice to his opposite hand, where the welts are the largest.

"How you feelin'?" she asks after a few cold minutes.

"M'okay," he mumbles. "Hurts, but s'just stings."

"No dizziness, nausea, shivers, difficulty breathing?" she prompts.

"No," he promises. "Just tired."

"You let me know if you develop any of the others," she insists, removing her cloth to grab another ice cube.

He shifts over as she slides up onto the couch, holding the ice to his raised arm to get at one of the welts on his bicep. Her free hand rubs patterns on his thigh and all he can do is watch her, sitting here, so calm and steady, helping him ice it down—not screaming, not pushing, not freaking out.

Ten quiet minutes later, when it feels like maybe his entire arm and face aren't about to explode from pressure, she stands. She takes the towels from him and picks up the melting bag of ice.

She leaves him for a few minutes and he sinks into the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. He leans his head back against the back of the couch, opening his mouth a few times to try and ease the stiffness the swelling caused in his face. It's not that effective.

When she re-appears, she's carrying a little bowl of white past and gauze.

"How did you find all of this?" he asks as she sits down next to him again.

She smiles and scoops out a little bit of the paste. "You guys are pretty predictable."

He groans in pleasure as she spreads the salve over his arms and hands. The feeling on his cheek makes him moan, and she gives a quiet laugh as she puts the dish on the coffee table and begins wrapping up his hands and arm.

"We won't keep these on over night, but this way you can move around, you know? Do you have calamine? That way it won't smear while we sleep."

"Sounds good," he says as she lays a light bandage over his cheek, smoothing her thumb along his light stubble as she lets her hand fall.

"Any better?"

"Much," he enthuses. "Thank you." He reaches over and palms her thigh, trying to explain how much it means that she patched him up, no muss, no fuss—nothing but tender care.

And it shouldn't surprise him—should stop surprising him—when she turns out to be just what he needs. But it does. It always blows him over. Because she's sweet and kind and loyal and loving, and when he needs a kick, she gives it to him. But she's never just one—never stuck in something when he needs her help. She's never less than extraordinary, even when she's annoying, even when he's annoying her—even when he's welty and whiny and covered in gauze.

"It's just a little baking soda in water," she says after a minute, obviously reading some of his gratitude for her care and for her on his face.

"Feels really good," he argues. "When'd you learn to do this?"

She sinks back into the couch beside him, crossing her legs and running her toes up and down his calf. "My dad's cabin is pretty rustic," she says.

"Bad experience?"

"I ended up at the hospital," Kate admits. "I was ten, and I got stung 17 times."

"Are you allergic?" he cuts in quickly.

"No," she promises. "No, but I was small and there were too many stings. The stuff they gave us to take home wasn't great, so my mom called her mother and she suggested this. It's been my go-to ever since." He looks over at her and finds her looking down his arm with a smile. "It's good to know it still works."

"Yeah," he agrees, his throat a little tight.

She made him what her mother made her—what she'll make for their kids—a tradition she carries with her from her mother, maybe not as far away as she seems.

"Relax," she chides, pushing on him a little until he settles beside her. "Do you want me to start the fire?"

"It can wait," he decides, hefting his arm over her shoulders. "Sit with me in my weakened state."

She laughs into his shoulder and curls up beside him, rubbing circles on his chest. "What do you want to do for dinner?"

"Order in?" he suggests, holding up his hands. He's going to be pretty useless for a day or so. He can barely bend his fingers.

She shakes her head against him. "Your mother and daughter are not coming all the way out here for take-out."

"My mother barely eats anything that isn't take out if left to her own devices."

"Your daughter is not coming here for Thanksgiving break to eat take-out," she amends.

Damn. "Well, maybe I can take an Advil or something and get the swelling down."

She gives him a look that's half exasperation, half disbelief, and he clams up. What?

"I'm capable of cooking, you know," she offers.

"I…know," he says slowly. She narrows her eyes and then stands up, leaving him there on the couch. "Where you goin'?"

"Sit there in your weakened state."

A moment later, he hears her start to putter around the kitchen and he closes his eyes.

Chivalry is so very, very dead.

A quiet hour later, she comes back with a small bag of peas wrapped in a towel. Her presence gets him to open his eyes, blinking up at her as she smiles down at him. He was kind of enjoying listening to her humming in the kitchen, mumbling to herself as she cooked.

Her smile falls a little as he tries to get his right eye all the way open. "Really did a number on you," she says softly, bending down to press the peas to his cheek. "Are you tired?"

"A bit," he admits.

"You should go nap." She smoothes a finger along his brow line and then bends to press her lips between his eye brows.

"I can help with dinner," he insists. "Just, um, coffee first?"

"Sleep," she insists. "I prepped everything anyway. All that's left to do is cook it all up. Let's go nap."

He nods his assent and lets her help him up, stumbling on stiff limbs. She gives him a worried look and he shakes his head.

"Foot's asleep," he admits. "Ah, crap."

Kate giggles into her hand as he suffers his way upstairs, trying to avoid the constant pins and needles in his leg. When they reach the top of the oak staircase, she pauses, looking down the hall.

"Where's your bedroom?" she wonders, her head turning as he steps off and tugs her down toward the master bedroom.

"Our room is the last one," he explains, smiling as she tugs them to a halt so she can look at a picture of Alexis standing inside a huge sand castle.

"That's awesome," she tells him, gesturing toward the photo. "How old is she?"

He looks at the picture, at the braided pigtails that fall down onto his kid's shoulders, the brightly colored one-piece. "About eight, I think."

** "**Pretty great for an eight-year-old."

"Well, I did most of the construction," he says. "But she was the designer."

Kate glances over at him with this soft smile that makes his knees buckle. God, she's beautiful. She takes shakes her head at whatever look he's giving her, and then pushes the door to the bedroom open.

"Oh my," she lets out as he stumbles into her across the threshold.

"Like it?" he asks, wrapping his aching arms around her waist. "We can change anything you want. It's a new bedspread, but if you don't like white, we can—"

Her hand comes up and covers his mouth. He chuckles against her palm and presses his lips to it as she slowly relaxes back against him. "It's perfect," she says, her voice a whisper. "The view—"

He nods, his good cheek against hers. Together they stare through the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the beach, the trees, the expansive ocean. It's a wonderful view; it is. But before now, without her seeing it for the first time, it's simply been part of his room, a normal part of the house.

Now it's part of them. The them that puts homemade salve on stings, and preps a complicated dinner for his kid, and cajoles him into napping—Kate is a part of him, of them, of this house.

"Nap," she says, interrupting his thoughts as she turns in his arms and guides him back to the bed.

She toes off her shoes and crawls across the pristine white comforter. He watches as she tugs the covers down and then beckons to him. He follows suit and slides slowly into bed, wincing as he presses against the stings. Damn his over-zealous immune system.

"Do you want a pain killer?" she asks, watching warily as he lies down.

"With dinner, so it lasts," he decides.

Kate nods and scoots closer, eyeing his body. She reaches out and then retracts her hand, leaving it hovering over his arm. He smiles and then grunts as he tries to get his arm up. The welt on his shoulder is stiff.

"Just get comfy," she chides, turning on her side to rub her hand over his chest as he tries to relax into the pillows.

"Wanna snuggle," he whines, looking over at her.

Her eyes crinkle and she shakes her head before bending to kiss his shoulder. "Close you eyes."

He frowns at her and tries to figure a way into touching her. They're in the bed here for the first time, and it's utterly unfair if he can't even hold her hand or feel her breath on his chest.

"I—"

"Jeez, Castle," she huffs. "You've managed without me before."

"That was months ago," he rebuffs, trying to glare at her with his good eye. She laughs, so it must be a pretty bad attempt. But he's not above begging. He _hurts_. "Please?"

She narrows her eyes at him and then sighs. Like it doesn't work both ways. She barely even has to look at him with those big eyes and he caves.

He waits as she looks him over and glances around the room. With a roll of her eyes, she shifts, turning sideways in the bed until her head is pillowed on his stomach. He slowly raises his hand so it rests high on her stomach, his thumb brushing the gentle curve of her chest.

"Watch it," she murmurs, turning her head to look at him.

He grins and lets his finger wander for a moment before stilling his hand with a laugh. "You sure you're comfortable?" he asks, feeling his eyes closing, her weight a comforting presence that's quickly lulling him into sleep.

"Go to sleep," she says by way of response.

"Love you," he lets out.

"Love you too," he hears, her breath warm against his stomach as the darkness tugs him under.

(…)

"Oh my God, Dad," Alexis exclaims as she steps into the foyer, his mother close behind.

"Dear, what happened?" Martha adds.

"Wasps nest in the shed," he says as Kate's fingers trip up his back.

"Again? You didn't get it removed?" Alexis demands as she rolls her suitcase into the hall. "I'm surprised Gina didn't set it on fire."

He looks up at the ceiling as Kate's hand stills on his back. "Yeah," he says to his daughter, bringing his head back down to give her a look.

"Why don't we go unpack," his mother says quickly, practically dragging Alexis upstairs with her, only stopping to grudgingly let Alexis take both suitcases—surprisingly small for the two of them.

He takes a moment to collect his head, and then turns to his fiancée who looks dangerously amused.

"So when you say you got tested?"

"Gina dragged me to the hospital," he explains, taking her hand with his slightly less swollen one to guide her over to the kitchen.

"Guess it wasn't a good trip," she deduces as he slumps down onto one of the stools around the large granite-topped island.

"They gave us this horrible salve, and she wasn't—you—bedside manner is not that woman's strong suit," he decides. "So, yeah, I should have gotten the nest sprayed, but I forgot and I was a little distracted that summer."

Her eyes dim for a moment before she steps closer and runs her fingers through his hair. "Understandable."

"Because I missed you," he interjects quickly. "Not by—can we stop talking about her?"

"I'm not the one who brought her up," Kate says as she traces the shell of his ear.

"Can I ground her?"

"Please, Castle, your kid should ground you."

He scoffs but smiles as she bends forward to kiss him, light and teasing. "Thanks for taking care of me," he says softly as she pulls away.

He tries to make it easy, like her kiss—nothing, a toss off—but she catches him. Her eyes snap to his and she parts her lips as she stands back up, looking at him like he's grown a second head.

"I—" she pauses and shakes her head, closing her eyes to open them back to him, clearer, brighter. "No one hurts my fiancé."

He laughs and stands swiftly to pull her into his arms, ignoring the way it hurts everything to do it. "Protective much?"

"Be glad I didn't make you get in a tub filled with ice," she mumbles into his shoulder.

"You wouldn't."

"You would have."

He smiles and turns to press his lips to the crown of her head. "You wouldn't have let me."

She laughs into his neck. "Might have."

He grins and slowly brings a hand up to cradle the back of her head with his stiff fingers. He glances to the stairs and finds Alexis frozen at the bottom, watching as he and Kate sway by the counter. She meets his eyes and smiles.

"You okay?" she mouths.

He smiles and winks at her, stifling a laugh as she blushes and tiptoes back up the stairs, leaving them to their moment in their kitchen.

"She's so not subtle," Kate whispers.

He laughs and nods against her temple. "But she's cute."

Kate pulls back and smiles, bringing her hand up to trace the edge of his bandage. "I should start cooking."

"Can I help?" he asks as she steps away and around him, headed for the covered dishes on the counter.

"Just sit and chat with me," she instructs.

"I can do more," he protests.

She turns back to him and shakes her head. "Sit and look pretty, Castle, or I will make you take that bath."


	41. Chapter 41

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Lucky me, I don't have class on Fridays. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 41:<strong>

When he wakes the next morning, Kate is gone from the bed. He blinks up at the ceiling and stretches against the sheets, groaning at the pops in his joints. He glances out the window as a clap of thunder booms over the beach outside.

He smiles at the weather, cocooned as he is in his bed, and then yawns. He could be content with a cup of coffee and his women, if they're up. Which, as he looks at the clock, he figures they probably already are. It's ten. Why did she let him sleep so late?

He shuffles into the bathroom and looks over his face, still crusted in dried Calamine lotion, but much less puffy. He blows out a breath of relief and gives himself a grin in the mirror, happy to see that it doesn't make the entire right side of his face shift with swelling.

He wipes the pink from his skin and then slides into jeans and his deep blue sweater, thinking of the spark in Kate's eyes whenever she sees it.

He flexes his fingers as he walks down the stairs, his hands still slightly stiff. Damn wasps. But, he doesn't ache all over, and he can see. He'll count it as a win: Richard Castle, one. Wasps, zero.

His daughter is nowhere to be seen, nor his mother, but they might still be sleeping. Alexis is in college, and he's been rather impressed by her shift into the odd hours after having never been one to sleep past nine as a kid. But she's probably out like a log now. And Martha, well, she'd sleep forever without something to do.

So he quietly goes about making his coffee, his bare toes curling on the cold tiles. He glances out the window at the rain beating down on the house and out across the beach to the choppy sea.

Then he spots her.

A dark figure racing up the beach—Kate sprints toward the house, soaking wet and barely dressed. He nearly shatters his mug in his hurry to get the door open for her, reaching up to grab a dish towel, a pathetic something to try and dry her off.

It must be forty degrees out there, and pouring, and lightning. What the hell was she thinking?

She barrels up onto the porch and then stops, panting and bending over her knees as she swipes at the hair plastered to her face.

He steps across the threshold and extends the towel, only to see her pick one up off of one of the lounge chairs. She looks up at him and gives him an exhausted, grimacing smile as he frowns at her.

"I couldn't find anything smaller," she explains as she runs the towel over her body—the sports bra, the running shorts.

He just stares at her as she wipes herself down, rooted to the spot until she starts shivering.

"Jeez, Kate," he lets out.

She rolls her eyes and toes out of her shoes before letting him tug her into the house, slamming the door behind them against the whipping wind.

"It wasn't raining when I left," she tells him as he takes her hand to bring her upstairs.

His fiancée is awesome, and lithe, and fit. But she's really stupid sometimes. Going jogging when the sky looked like it was about to open up? By the ocean? Dressed for a summer run in November?

He's silent as he guides her into the bathroom and flicks on the shower. She watches him curiously as he grabs a fresh towel for her, waiting for the water to heat up.

It bothers him. It does. She could have gone running later—could have skipped it all together. It was stormy last night. And it couldn't have looked much better this morning.

"It's not like I was going to get hit by lightning," she says against the silence, and there's irritation in her voice.

"Could have," he retorts, leaning back against the counter as she runs her hands through her tangled hair.

"By what odds?" she grumbles, stripping out of her bra, so she's bare from the waist up, her skin peppered with goose bumps and speckled with rain water.

There's a hole in her chest—a glaring scar that promises that she will beat the odds—that she is not immune from any odds. If anyone could get hit by lightning, it would be Kate Beckett.

"We can get a treadmill here," he lets out. And a glare. Fabulous.

"With the beach right outside? There's already a pool."

"I better not catch you swimming in the pool when there's thunder," flies out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Her glare darkens but he stands his ground. Her safety is more important than her smile right now, even if her glare is really intimidating.

"I'm not an idiot, Castle," she growls.

He bites back comments about running in a thunder storm, but she sees it on his face anyway.

"It wasn't raining when I went out, and by the time it was, I was too far out to get back before the thunder." She strides toward him, and he's a little thrown by just how powerful she looks in only a pair of running shorts. "So, either join me in the shower and help me warm up, or sulk on your own."

With that, she spins around, sheds her shorts, and gets into the shower, slamming the frosted glass door behind her. He stares at her profile, marking the way she angrily reaches for the soap and faces into the spray.

He wants to go sulk. Or, rather, he wants to go seethe, because it's still not okay. But, he hasn't showered, and if they're going to have hot shower sex to work it out, it might be better than them both being bitter tomorrow on Thanksgiving with their friends and family there. Plus, hot shower sex.

When he slides the door open, she turns to look at him, soap sluicing down her body.

"Took you long enough," she says, and she's still pissed, but there's affection in there too.

He just closes the door and takes the few steps to her to wrap her in his arms, bending to meet her mouth in an aggressive kiss. She arches up onto the balls of her feet to hold him there, her body sliding against his.

He runs his hands down her sides, backing them into the wall. She wraps her leg around his hip and breaks away from his mouth to trail her lips down his jaw, nipping at the rough stubble he didn't bother to shave.

"Do not get me a treadmill for Christmas," she gets out against his cheek just before her breath hitches while he moves his hands over her body.

"I'm not that dumb," he mumbles, watching her face as her head falls back and her mouth opens.

She takes a deep breath, squirming, hitching her leg higher, inviting. "Neither am I," she tells him, meeting his eyes.

He takes it, apology on both sides.

And then he takes her.

(…)

"Hey, stud," she says as she comes back from the table, where she's set out dishes for the lavish brunch they've prepared.

He turns and grins at her, watching as her cheeks flush and she twists her hand into the bottom of the flowing blue top she's wearing. He quirks an eyebrow and she kicks back into gear.

"You need to lose the 'I just got laid,' vibe."

He scoffs and then grins wider as she laughs and pads over to him to brush the hair from his eyes. He flips a pancake and hums as she skips her fingers down his back.

"I will if you will."

"I do not vibe, I glow," she retorts, and he feels like she must have gotten that from his mother. "But you—with that shit-eating grin—need to cool it before we scar your kid."

"Too late," Alexis announces as she wanders into the kitchen.

Kate groans and presses her forehead to his shoulder while he laughs. "Like she hasn't heard worse."

"This looks good," Alexis pushes on, sitting down at the table. "A little much."

Kate laughs and pulls away from him, brushing her hand along his back as she leaves to take the plate of waffles and bacon to the table. "Guess we got carried away," she admits, shaking her head as Alexis laughs. "And your Gram must be somewhere."

"She went to meet a friend," Alexis tells them around a yawn, brushing fly-aways from her face. "But she should be back soon."

"Have you been up long?" he asks as he comes to the table with the pancakes, leaving the dishes for later.

"Few hours?" He smiles as Alexis eagerly reaches for the chocolate chip pancakes. "Was reading my sociology textbook."

"For a few hours?" Kate asks, her eyes wide. "That's dedication."

"Well, the textbook and the supplementary stuff," his daughter corrects. "One's a set of memoirs, and it's actually pretty interesting."

"Nerd," he mumbles, laughing as Kate slaps his arm.

"Don't be mean. It's great that you like your books," she tells his kid.

Alexis laughs. "Thanks. And don't worry about him. He out-nerds me all the time."

"Hey now. Kate out-nerds me sometimes," he protests, feeling like somehow he's losing this silly contest.

"That makes me the smartest then. Nice," Kate decides, grinning as Alexis laughs in triumph.

"No arguments there," he mumbles, and she gives him that soft look—the one he loves, the "I love you, Castle," look.

"You concede defeat?" Alexis asks, giving him an exaggerated gape, which quickly becomes another yawn.

"Break is for sleeping, not studying," he chides. "And yes, I surrender to her brilliance."

"Laying it on a little thick there, buddy," Kate mumbles around a mouthful of his pancakes. "Freakin' good," she adds, pointing to him with her fork.

He chuckles and takes his own bite. Yeah, they are pretty freaking great. "Better chocolate here," he admits. "I'll grab some for home when we go back."

"Please," both Alexis and Kate say at once.

Alexis smiles at his fiancée while Kate just smirks into her coffee. "Might be the smartest, but you are the better cook," she concedes.

"Least it's fair," he says, nodding along.

They're actually a little disgusting. Really. They are. They need to tone it down when the gang gets to the house tomorrow.

But Alexis is smiling at them, her eyes sparkling, and he thinks maybe they shouldn't tone it down. They're high on sex, and each other, in a kind of love he knows he hasn't had before. And it's so good for his daughter—to see that, though flawed, real exists. Lasting exists.

"Castle," Kate prompts, and he swivels his gaze from his pajama-clad teen to his future wife. "Your hands capable of writing? You're zoning out."

"They are," he acknowledges. "Not thinkin' Nikki."

She searches his eyes and then shrugs, going back to her food. They really do need to decide when they want to get married. Now he's antsy.

"Where should we get married?" he blurts out.

Both women whip their gazes to his and he nearly winces at his lack of finesse. Kate blinks a few times and then relaxes, giving him a knowing smile. Well, at least they're on the same page.

"Could do it here," she suggests slowly. "In the summer, or the end of—" she trails off and bites at her lip.

"In May," he finishes for her. "I think—I think that would be good."

"Here?" Alexis clarifies, saving them both from falling back into memories of just why they're so eager to give May a good meaning.

"Easy, holds a lot of people, pretty," Kate says with a little shrug. "And I—it would just be nice?"

He chuckles and reaches out for her hand. Rather than petty fights and wasps and memories of all the wrong people—they could make this special, beautiful. They could shed all of that off.

"Sounds perfect," he agrees. "Alexis?"

"Me? Oh, well, yeah," she says quickly. "It'll be beautiful, and simple, and that's what you want, right?"

"Please," Kate replies emphatically.

And then they're all laughing, some unknown tension breaking in the image of the two of them exchanging vows in the sand, in the sun, in May, before a first wonderful summer.

"How simple?" Alexis asks when they've caught their breath.

He watches as she and Kate lock eyes, Kate's smile wide and Alexis' shy. She's never gotten to be part of planning his weddings either. Another first. In fact, he's never been part of planning his weddings.

"Friends, family, um, Rick?" Kate begins, shooting him a look. "More than that? Publi—"

"No," he cuts in. "God, no. Already fought with Gina and Paula about it." He catches Alexis' wide, pleased eyes, and smiles. "This one's just for us. If they need it, I'm sure we could suffer through a big publicity party. But not for our wedding."

The hand he's still holding squeezes his. He meets Kate's eyes and can't stop himself from leaning over to steal a kiss from her proud, approving, besotted smile.

"Gonna be a damn good wedding," she mumbles against his lips.

(…)

"Too low-cut," Kate sighs as he comes back down stairs from prepping the guest rooms. Alexis hums.

He meanders over to the couch where his daughter and fiancée are huddled together, peering over something on Alexis' laptop. He leans between their shoulders and has to clamp his lips together as he spots the page of wedding dresses. He's a dead man. She's going to kill him in white and lace with that smile.

"How 'bout this?" Alexis suggests, hovering over a simple dress with a shallow vee in the front and back. The fabric flows to the floor, gentle and unassuming. But on Kate?

"Still too low," Kate lets out.

"I don't know," he murmurs, chuckling as they startle.

"Jeez, Castle," Kate chides, reaching back to flick his arm.

He simply presses a kiss to her cheek and looks down at the dress. "It's not that low. And it's just us, you know? Your dad's seen you in worse, I'm sure."

Alexis giggles and Kate shakes her head. "No, not—I'm not worried about that. I just—" she lets out a breath and then tugs on the boat neck of her shirt until it sits where the bodice of the dress would.

The puckered scar is just visible between her breasts and he sucks in a breath. He didn't—how on earth didn't he consider that? And yet—and yet, she would still be so beautiful.

Alexis is quiet beside her, already scrolling through dresses—giving them a moment. He runs a hand over Kate's head and she turns back to meet his eyes.

"It doesn't matter," he says softly.

She stares at him and then wets her lips, trailing a finger over the hand propping him up on the back of the couch. "Yeah, it does," she tells him.

He frowns as she turns back to the computer. It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It's part of her—a beautiful, strong, resilient part of her.

"What about something like this?" Alexis suggests quietly.

Together they peer down at the gorgeous dress, tight at the waist and then flowing down to the model's toes in a soft flair. The bodice has a sweetheart neckline and then lace that climbs up to a simple collar, giving the illusion of a vee, a hint, a tease. It's beautiful, simple, yet sophisticated.

He hears Kate hum contemplatively, and then Alexis clicks so they can see the back. He lets out a short laugh while Kate grins at the way the lace spans the woman's back, which it doesn't. The dress has no back—an endless expanse of touchable skin that rises from the small of her back up to the teasing collar.

"A contender, I think," Kate tells his daughter. "You think?"

He nods and rubs his cheek to hers. "Anything," he whispers.

She raises a hand and presses his head to hers, her delicate fingers spanning his cheek as Alexis saves the picture. She'll be gorgeous in whatever she wears, and he's sure no matter what it is, he's going to love it. But she needs to love it too.

(…)

When he wakes, it's still dark. The room is quiet and he lays there for a moment, listening, trying to get his muddled brain to figure out why he's awake.

There's a murmur beside him, and he shifts to look at Kate, lying on her back, the sheets bunched in her fists. She's breathing heavily and he watches her mouth move with muted words. A moment later, her entire body jerks and her mouth parts in a silent scream.

He's immobile for a moment before he cautiously moves to wrap himself around her. He's learned. He knows how this goes. Carefully trapping her arms beneath his on either side of her body, he keeps his head apart from hers and squeezes her arm.

"Kate."

She mumbles and twitches, her head shifting as he holds onto her. He rubs a circle on her arm with his thumb and throws a leg over hers.

"Kate, hey," he tries again.

"Get. Castle. Burns. I—get it out. Get it out!" she moans, growing louder until her eyes slam open and she struggles against him. He holds on, hoping the weight will ease her out.

"Get it out. Get it out! Let me go! Get. It. Out!" she exclaims, hoarse, nearly shouting.

He recoils and she jerks in the bed, free from his hold on her—binding her. Shit. What was she dreaming about?

She takes in great gasps of air for a moment, and then raises both hands to her chest. He startles toward her as she starts to claw at her skin, squeezing her eyes shut as she writhes in the bed.

"Get it out. Castle. Help me. Get it out," she sobs.

"Kate," he calls, louder, his voice ringing around the room. Oh, God, and he held her down. "It's out."

Her hands slow and then she opens her eyes, her breath coming in uneven, jagged pants. "Bu—bullet," she rasps.

"It's gone," he promises, slowly moving toward her. "It's gone," he repeats as he reaches out.

He lays his hand over hers on her chest, and, when she doesn't move, gently tugs her hand away, revealing the angry red of her scar where she's rubbed herself raw, trying to unearth a bullet over a year gone.

"Got," she pauses and licks her lips. "Got shot," she mumbles.

"Yeah, you did," he agrees, squeezing her hand.

"I—I couldn't move," she continues, her other hand rubbing soft circles around her scar. "Couldn't think."

He merely brings their hands to his lips, pressing kisses to her fingers, her wrist, the back of her palm. He doesn't have anything else, but for the sheen in his eyes and the clench in his chest.

"And it hurt. Hurt so much," she whispers. "So fucking much."

He lets out a small sound, a moan, a sob—a something. Something primal and low, because she's cracking him open, and he can't help her.

"Broke. Things," she sucks in a breath, "broke. My heart." She turns her head and he lurches toward her at the tears in her eyes. "Broke my heart."

"It's healed," he says, and his voice is so rough, so heavy. He brings their hands back to her chest. "It's beating. Feel."

She nods against the pillows and squeezes his hand. "I got shot."

"Yeah," he lets out, feeling lost.

"I got shot," she repeats. "I got—scars. I have these ugly, horrible scars," she continues, and suddenly she's sitting.

He blinks up at her and slowly hauls himself up to sit beside her, both of them topless. He watches as she takes back her hand to lay it over her other scar along her side.

"And they'll never go away. They'll always be there. No amount of scar cream even made a difference." Her voice is low and threaded with pain, and sorrow, and anger, and he just doesn't know what to do.

"I can't wear—stupid dresses. Stupid—I got shot!"

He barely has the time to blink before she's out of the bed, pacing in nothing but a pair of lacy, black underwear. He sits there and watches as she strides around the room, her movements halting and forced. He stares as she clenches and unclenches her left hand while the right traces a steady pattern over her scar.

"It's not fair," she lets out. "Not. It's not. I—I can never get that back. And I have scars, and PTSD, and it's not. Fair," she growls. "It's not—and you're so—not fair to you, to me. I can never forget it. Never. And I want—I want to."

She turns to him and they stare at each other in the dim light that flows in from the newly parted sky. Moonlight falls across the floor and he watches as she steps into it, glancing down at her foot, bathed in light.

"That first week," she begins, her voice softer. "After I—after I sent you away. I woke up every morning amazed that I was alive."

"Kate," he breathes out.

"And it hurt. It hurt so damn much, Castle." She raises her eyes back to his, and he sees a tear trail down her cheek. "I got—I got shot and I can't wear—and it'll always be there." She takes a breath and steps into the moonlight, her pale skin lit with the glow, luminescent and almost too ethereal for his heart. "And it hurts."

"Oh, Kate," he says as he rises to meet her, clutching at her as she falls into his arms.

He wraps himself around her, his head bent so his lips can reach every part of her he can find while she presses her face into his throat, her arms around his neck, nearly pulling herself up onto his body.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her hair. "I'm so very sorry."

She shudders into him and he wonders—wonders if this is the first time in a while, if ever, that she's let herself be angry. She's been plenty angry about Montgomery, and her mother, and the conspiracy. But about what happened to her? About the physical trauma, the wound, the pain—has she grieved for that? Did she ever let herself stop to feel instead of healing, for a day, an hour?

He had his time. He's had his nights, and his days, ever since he saw the glint in the distance. But Kate. Kate plowed through until she was back to herself—back to kicking ass and taking names and solving murders.

"Not fair," she speaks to his skin. "Stupid to feel—ridiculous," she decides and she pulls back, avoiding his eyes as she wipes at her tears.

"No," he says quickly, reaching out to cup her cheeks. "Not ridiculous at all. Get pissed."

"What?" she says, her voice hoarse and rough and surprised.

He blows out a breath, preparing himself. But she needs this. He got to have his—had a whole summer of anger, some of it misplaced, but it was there. And he's gotten that catharsis.

"You got shot," he says clearly. "You got shot, and you have scars, and they took three months of your life. You get to be angry."

"But it's—"

"You. Got. Shot," he repeats, hating himself for it. But the spark in her eyes, the glimmer of true and honest anger—that's what he wants for her.

"I—Fuck, Castle. I got shot," she lets out, strong, and clear, and scary.

"Yeah," he agrees. "And it sucks."

He startles as she kicks the bed, and then winces, pulling her leg back. Get angry, but don't—

He grabs two pillows and holds them against his chest. "Here," he says.

She stares at him for a moment, hesitant. He flicks his eyes to her scar, and that's all it takes for her to break.

Her fists pound at the pillow. He can feel each dull thud against his chest, but it doesn't hurt. He has just enough padding though he hardly cares. He watches tears stream down her cheeks as she throws punch after punch, her mouth set in a tight line.

"Why me?" she lets out with a particularly aggressive punch. "Bad enough that my mom is dead." Punch. "And my dad was an alcoholic." Punch. "And I nearly got blown up, twice." Punch. Punch. "Then I had to get shot?"

Wham.

He stumbles back as her foot hits the pillow. She follows him. "How is that fair?" Thwack. "How is that right?" Punch. Kick. Jab. "What the hell did I do to the world to deserve that?" Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch.

"What did I do?"

Nothing.

Pause.

Silence.

They stare at each other. Her fists slowly uncurl and she sags, staring at him with big, shining, exhausted eyes.

"What did I do wrong? What did I do that was so horrible that I deserved that? All of that?"

"Nothing," he says quietly. "You didn't deserve it."

"Then why?" she cries out. "Then why me? Why, Castle? Write me a book that makes it make sense."

He drops the pillows and reaches out for her, scrambling in his head for assurances he doesn't know that he has. All he can do is haul her into his chest and press his mouth to hers—push the only thing he has into her lips.

"Doesn't make sense," he says as they break apart. "I can't write you that epilogue. But we can write more of the story."

She swallows and squeezes the back of his neck. "I—" She closes her eyes and slides her other hand down to sit over his heart. "Better my heart than yours."

He lets out a sound he can only classify as a keen, and her eyes jolt open. "Oh, Rick, no," she sighs. "No, I meant—I don't—Only one of us, and better me than you because I couldn't—I wouldn't live through it."

He opens his mouth but she shakes her head. "They broke my heart, but you dying would—" Her eyes search through his, her fingers tense on his body, and she blows out a breath. "I don't know that I believe in magic, or souls, or fate—your stuff, you know?"

He finds a small laugh for that, for all the things he holds onto for her, for both of them.

"But you dying—that would break my soul." She presses her lips to his jaw as he tries to find his voice to tell her all the ways it would shatter his if she died. "But if the price—one bullet for this lifetime with you—I—"

He seals his mouth to hers before she can finish. She arches into him, hot and alive and real against his body. He trails a hand down to sit over her scar, feeling the rapid pound of her heart beneath the tips of his fingers.

"You're so strong," he tells her mouth, her ear, her pulse. "You, Kate, Beckett, rose from the ashes, and I am so proud of you."


	42. Chapter 42

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: I would release more sneaks. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 42:<strong>

"Man, did Beckett hit you?" Esposito asks as he helps him haul his and Lanie's suitcases into the house.

"Did Lanie pack an entire house in here?" he counters, huffing a little as he drags the bag to the base of the staircase, listening as Lanie, Kate, Alexis and his mother chat in the kitchen.

Esposito just shrugs. "Got what she needs, I guess. But seriously. Your eye looks—"

"Wasps," Kate calls out. "It was wasps, Esposito. But if you want a black eye, I'd be happy to give you one."

Esposito cringes and grabs Lanie's bag from him with a look. "Second on your left," Castle says, taking pity on the man.

His eye is a bit the worse for wear. It swelled back up last night without the poultice on it, and even though Kate made him ice it this morning, it still looks pretty gnarly.

He prods at it and winces just as Kate rounds the staircase. She tuts at him and pulls his hand down from his face.

"Looks bad enough," she chides. "Would look a lot worse if I'd slugged you."

He laughs and yanks her in to press a rough kiss to her lips. "Not so hot on the slugging. The spanking—"

"My dad is about a minute from getting here," she interrupts. "So unless you want to give him a heart attack, I suggest you cool it."

He groans and releases her, scrunching up his face as she laughs at him. "Later?" he says as she walks away and toward the door.

She spins around and gives him a sly look with a little wink. He's still grinning when her father comes through the door.

They get caught up in hellos and the kitchen expands with conversation and the smell of amazing food. Kate's turkey recipe, Lanie's stuffing, Alexis' signature yams, his mother's garlic potatoes, Jim's apple pie, Esposito's cranberry sauce—everyone crams onto the island, spilling on the counters to cook.

He laughs as Kate stumbles into his back, Alexis at her side to catch the eggs before she drops them while Esposito stumbles into the refrigerator.

"Okay kids, too many cooks in the kitchen," Martha declares.

"Good thing Jenny dragged Ryan to her parent's after all, huh?" Esposito mumbles as Lanie and Kate push them out of the kitchen. "And isn't this a little sexist?"

Kate snorts while Lanie rolls her eyes as they reach the threshold to the living room. "Because you really need to watch that cranberry sauce," she offers with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, you want dry turkey and stuffing?" Espo counters.

"You sayin' my turkey is gonna be dry?" Kate interjects.

Castle laughs as Javi stumbles away under the weight of their twin glares. "You sure you don't want help?" he asks, looking to Kate.

"You can have Christmas," she says easily, nudging her friend as Lanie squeaks.

"If you're sure," he says, holding up his hands.

"Martha's kicking my dad out too. Keep him company," Kate instructs with a smile. "Maybe grab more wood—actually, make Espo do that."

"I'll watch the wasps," he grumbles.

"Don't need that mug any more swollen," Lanie agrees. "Javi's good with bees."

"And how do you know that?" Castle prods eagerly.

"Go have man time," Kate says, waving him away. "Tell you later," she mouths as Lanie turns back to help Alexis re-tent the turkey.

He grins and watches Kate walk away, her hair swaying in a braid against her back, her ass hugged deliciously in dark, tight denim.

"Rick," Jim says, coming up behind him as he's ogling the man's daughter.

"Mother finally wore you down, huh?" Castle says as he turns around, hoping his smile is as innocent as he's wants it to be.

"Indeed," Jim says with a chuckle. "Insisted I get a tour."

The man makes no mention of his having leered at his daughter as he leads him upstairs. Esposito makes his way out of the sliders, headed for the shed, and Jim gives Castle a gentle push up the stairs, dragging them both away from the laughter in the kitchen.

"This is some house," Jim says as they make the second floor. "The view from my room is astounding."

Castle smiles and looks over at his fiancée's father. "It was a big part of why I picked the place to begin with."

Jim bobs his head and comes to a halt at the little inlet between Alexis' room and the guest room they've allotted for him. He gestures to the opposite side of the banquet and Castle sits down slowly, a slight sense of foreboding washing over him even as sunlight falls through the window between them, slanting across the floor.

"Katie looks tired," Jim opens.

Ah, not foreboding, just—just what he would want if Kate were Alexis and he were Jim. "A little," he agrees.

"Is everything all right?" her father probes and Castle pauses.

There's a bond, a shared person, between himself and Jim now. They both care about Kate, both want to see her happy. But there's a bond between him and Kate as well, and how much of that she wants her father to know—

"Everything's getting there," he hedges.

Jim narrows his eyes and shifts against the bright blue pillow at his back. It's hardly the right place for two grown men to have a serious discussion, perched in the reading nook where Alexis used to disappear.

"Has she talked about going back to the precinct at all?"

Castle shakes his head. "After the benefit, we're going to talk, and she'll go another eval with Burke," he explains. "And she seems lighter."

After her breakdown last night, they lay for a few hours, just talking nonsense—trips they'd enjoy, colors for rooms, restaurants they just had to go to when they went back to the city. And this morning, her smile, the light in her eyes, the way she laughed on the couch with Alexis—everything about her seems weightless.

"Good to have a plan," Jim says with a contemplative nod. "And the benefit—how's that going?"

"It's going well," he says with a smile. "Really well, actually. Kate has a certain touch."

Jim chuckles and shares his smile. "She always was one to plan a good party—threw a few great bridal showers for some of her hometown friends."

"Before?" he wonders.

"A slew of them got married pretty early," Jim explains. "They were a strange class that year. Worried Johanna for a while."

"Don't tell me Kate got close to it with wet-flannel guy," he says, half kidding, half serious.

Jim snorts. "Oh, lord, no. Katie—I'm sure you've seen some of her stubbornness." Castle nods emphatically and Jim laughs. "She dated him to spite me. I don't know that there was ever much feeling there."

Castle laughs. "So, perpetually a teenage bridesmaid?"

"A very organized, romantic bridesmaid. It's kind of nice to see that channeled into, well, into you, I suppose."

He is not in the business of blushing. But he might be. Just a little. "Ah, well, yeah," he manages, shaking his head as Jim lets out a loud laugh.

"Have you picked a date yet?"

"May, sometime," he says. "Here, we think. And small."

Jim smiles and glances out at the ocean. "Should be beautiful."

"I think it will," Castle agrees, trying to keep his mind in check, or he'll be trapped in visions of their wedding and be totally useless. "Gives us a while too."

Jim bobs his head and they sit there in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Castle fiddles with the clasp of his watch, eyes trailing across the pictures he can see that line the walls, mainly of Alexis. His eyes stick on one of him sitting in the sand with a 16-month old Alexis between his legs, his hands steadying her in her little bikini, pieces of diaper sticking out of the ruffled little bottoms. Her eyes are trained on the ocean, and his on her face as she points out at the water.

"She was a cute baby," Jim says quietly.

"Yeah," he agrees as laughter floats up to them—adult, female laughter. "Yeah she was."

Jim watches him and Castle slowly brings his gaze back to his father-in-law-to-be. "You and Katie. Are you still talking about more of them?" he asks, pointing the general direction of the photo.

"We are," he admits. "But, later. We're not—we don't want a shotgun wedding," he stumbles out.

Jim laughs, startled, and shakes his head, reaching out to pat Castle's knee once before sitting back. "It's not a shotgun wedding if you plan the baby," he offers.

Castle feels his eyes widen and then he groans and knocks his head back against the wall once while Jim chuckles.

When he opens his eyes, Jim smiles and pats his leg again before standing up. "I think I'll freshen up before dinner. Thank you for inviting me."

"You're welcome," he gets out as Jim walks away.

It's not a shotgun wedding if you plan the baby.

Why?

Why would he say that? Now he just wants to get her pregnant. Tonight. Right now.

He wants another little baby with chubby legs and diapers that stick out of little clothes—another set of eyes that widen at the most mundane things, because it's all so new, all so fascinating. He wants a little baby with Kate's eyes and his hair—wants to watch Kate's eyes light up when she comes home, when their baby toddles into her legs and babbles up at her.

He wants it. He wants that life—wants that future. And he'd been so content, so strangely at peace with waiting. It's not like he didn't realize that they could plan it. But still. Still, there is something about that validation from her father—something that suddenly makes it concrete, real, an argument he can make, a proposal he can give.

A baby.

"Hey."

He jerks in his seat and refocuses his eyes to find Lanie standing there in front of him. She laughs and rests her hip against the wall at the edge of his little alcove, scrutinizing him.

"You okay?"

He nods mutely for a second and then finds his voice. "Yeah. I was just—uh—yeah."

She shakes her head and gives him a smile. "Papa Beckett scare you?"

"No," he says instantly. "No, I'm just—you guys done cooking?"

She scoffs and gives him a look. Yeah, she doesn't ever take it from Kate either, does she? "Kate and Alexis are making another pie. I was headed up to see if Javi'd come by. And you, mister, are out of it."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I mean—" He glances out the window and spots Esposito down by the water's edge, poking through shells and rocks. "Espo's down the beach."

Lanie narrows her eyes and considers him. "Sure you're okay?"

He meets her eyes, startled by the sincerity in her voice. "I'm just fine," he promises. He is. He's just—he's brimming over. "I promise. Bring him a coat?"

She cracks and gives him a brilliant smile. "Will do, Mr. Mom."

He gives her a half-hearted glare and watches as she laughs her way back down the hall. Well shit. If it's bleeding out of his eyes, he's got to get himself together. He can't walk around with, "I want to get you pregnant right now," plastered all over his face. He's not even sure he should mention it to Kate.

He stands after a moment and rubs his hands over his face before he sets out for the stairs. The main floor is quiet but for the soft murmur of his daughter and fiancée's voices. He's about to walk down the last few steps and into the kitchen, but Alexis' voice stops him cold.

"With dad. How did you know?"

He stands there, just out of sight, and listens, frozen, eager, a little guilty.

Kate laughs, her voice a warm sound that floats around the kitchen and up to him there on the huge oak staircase. He plops down to the lovely ring of it, settles himself on one of the steps and leans against the railing.

"Do you want the pretty version or the real one?" Kate asks.

Alexis laughs. "The real one, I guess."

He hears one of the stools pull out and imagines Kate sliding onto it, giving his daughter a deep look.

"It wasn't like lightning, or anything like the books, you know?" she begins, her voice soft and lovely. "I don't know that I had a moment. I just—when I realized that he was the one I wanted to call—the one that I wanted even when I was crying and disheveled and a mess. And when he was the one that came—"

Another stool pulls out and Alexis must be sitting down now, settling in. He's eavesdropping. He is. But he just can't care, can't pull himself away from the lilt in her voice and the idea that she is telling his daughter their story—the side of the story she lived.

"It took me a long time to admit that he was that person," she continues with a little laugh. "And then—well, you were there for the messy part."

Alexis laughs. "Yeah, but, I mean—I lived through messy. What you guys had wasn't messy it was…hard."

Kate hums and he nods his head against the banister. "Yeah," Kate agrees. "That's a better word. But maybe that's it. It was hard, but it was worth fighting for. And then once we'd, uh, fought." She pauses and he laughs silently with her. Fought—they fought for a month straight—the world's longest constant battle. "Once that was over it just—my life doesn't make sense without him."

He hears Alexis suck in a breath as he lets one out. His life doesn't make sense without her either.

"And it's not that my life couldn't exist without him," Kate clarifies. "I could live without him," she continues, and he hears it in her voice—the knowledge that someday she might have to, he might have to. "But it wouldn't be a life worth much. And that's what it is."

"It?" his daughter clarifies.

"When you know, I think," Kate intones. He sinks down a few stairs and peers through the bars to see Kate taking his kid's hand. "How you know. When you know that a life without him wouldn't be the same—would be empty. We can all live alone. I've done it. We can exist apart. But life without your dad just isn't living."

He presses a hand to his mouth, to stop the sounds he knows he's trying to make, half laughing, half sobbing quiet sounds he knows she loves, but neither she nor his daughter need to hear at the moment—in their moment.

"I—" Alexis sighs and he sees Kate take her hand in both of her own, her ring catching the light.

"You don't have to know now," Kate insists.

"I know," Alexis agrees. "And I don't—not like you and dad. But it's more."

"Than Ashley," Kate supplies, and he's suddenly so glad she's doing this instead of him.

Forget the tightness in his chest at her words. Forget the beautiful things she said. He's just glad his daughter has her—has her to do so gracefully what he would have certainly bumbled up.

"Yeah," Alexis sighs. "And I don't—it's been all of three days," she continues, and he lowers his hand from his face, kind of amused. His kid is whining.

"Three days is a lot," Kate says gently.

"Not it's not," Alexis shoots back, and Kate laughs.

"Okay, no, it isn't. But it can feel like it." God, three days—could he last three days without her?

Okay, he could. But would he sound like Alexis right now, but on a host of drugs and having his teeth pulled out?

"I feel ridiculous," his daughter mumbles.

"You're not."

"You promise?" Alexis begs on a huff.

"I really, really do," Kate tells her, and it's that voice—her always voice. "Go on and call him."

Alexis laughs and then there's the scrape of her stool against the floor. Crap. He goes to stand up, but nearly falls. Ah, jeez, what's he going to do?

The slider opens and he watches Alexis retreat down the beach, wrapped in Kate's jacket. Well, okay. But, uh, what does—

"Snoop," Kate calls up and he actually slides down a few stairs, startled. "Walk, don't tushy foot," she remarks.

He makes his shaky way to his feet and slowly comes down the stairs and into the kitchen, trying to come up with something in his head. But he's got nothing. "Tushy foot?" he offers.

She blushes and busies her hands on the countertop for a moment. "Mom's saying. But," she turns around and gives him a look as he hovers at the edge of the kitchen, "you were eavesdropping."

"I didn't want to ruin your moment?"

She keeps her face blank for a moment and then laughs, glancing toward the oven before she picks up the pie and slides it inside. He walks forward cautiously, feeling like maybe she isn't mad. She could be, but then again, it's not like he didn't know.

"Your mother is on the phone with Jack," Kate tells him as she stands back up.

"And my daughter is talking to her boyfriend," he continues for her.

"So I suppose I should talk to you," she says with disinterest.

"Lanie's out with Javi, if that tilts the scales in my favor at all," he adds, sauntering toward her now, confident.

She laughs as he yanks her into him. He fuses his lips to hers and she squeaks, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders for a moment before they slide to link behind his neck.

He crowds her into the island between the stools, wanting more, all of her, the full press of her wonderful body against his. He strokes his tongue over the ridge of her mouth, hands clutching into the slight fabric around her waist.

She moans into his mouth and then pulls back, her chest heaving and eyes heavy as she looks up at him, startled and turned on and tender.

"You—you okay?" she asks softly.

Ah, yeah, he did come on a little strong, didn't he? "M'fine," he breathes as she strokes her fingers through her hair. "Just love you," he adds, because anything else would be too much, and not enough at all.

She smiles and arches onto her toes to press her lips to his in a soft kiss. "Me too, Castle," she whispers against his mouth. "Now help me set the table."

(…)

It's been a while since he's had a big Thanksgiving, now that he thinks about it. It's loud.

Esposito, Alexis, and Lanie are arguing about some bet at the precinct—a bet that's not about them, interestingly enough. His mother and Jim are talking about politics, he thinks. It might be theatre politics. And Kate—Kate is just watching, her eyes flitting from person to person as she slowly eats her food.

And the food. It's sinful. The best everyone has to offer—the table is a veritable feast of all the best parts of Thanksgiving. Kate's turkey is amazing, and paired with Lanie's stuffing, he thinks he might just gain all of his pounds back. He could eat all of it for a week.

Alexis is quietly hoarding his mother's potatoes—her absolute favorite—and Jim seems to have taken more stuffing than even he has. Castle laughs as Lanie grabs the wing before Espo can get to it.

"You throw a good Thanksgiving," Kate says softly, looking over at him.

"Me? I barely did anything. This is your party," he rebuffs. She smiles and he sees a little pink climbing up her neck. "Besides. I get Christmas, remember?"

She laughs at that. "Right, right."

"No, no way!" Alexis exclaims, claiming their attention.

"I swear to you. It's going to happen," Esposito argues. "They're gonna do it."

"You're deluded," Lanie chimes in. "Completely deluded. Those two?"

"Who are we arguing about?" Martha asks, setting down her fork to adjust her red blouse.

"Javi thinks Velasquez and Granson are going to get together," Alexis explains.

"What?" Kate lets out. "No, ew, oh, no. Please."

"I can see it," Castle says, laughing as Esposito makes the effort to feed the birds, completely ignoring the way that he has to cross Lanie to do it.

"You cannot," Kate insists. "Seriously? Velasquez? She's so above that."

"That?" he and Esposito chorus together.

"Is Velasquez the one with the shorter hair, a few years older than you lot?" Jim chimes in.

"And Granson is this grungy uniform, about fifteen years her junior," Kate informs his mother and her father. "I don't know what they're thinking."

"I'm eight years older than you," Castle protests, purely to see her whip around and land a glare on him. It's kind of fun to rile her up—kinda normal, especially with everyone gathered around the table.

"Are you a grungy uniform?" she asks, her eyes narrow.

"No, but you are younger than me."

"Sayin' you're her sugar daddy, Castle?" Esposito chimes in, only to be leveled with Kate's harsh glare.

"Hardly," he cuts in before Kate can open her mouth. "She never lets me buy her anything."

Kate groans and reaches out to whack his arm. "Shut up, Castle."

"Just stating facts," he says cheerily. "But, really, you think Velasquez and Granson?"

"Man, you should see the way they look at each other—like you and Beckett, but creepy."

"Esposito, I swear, if you don't shut it," Kate lets out, looking back over at him.

"Now, now, Katie. Other people are entitled to inter office affairs,"  
>her father chimes in to Martha's laugh.<p>

"And some of them don't take as long as the two of you," Alexis adds. "I think we're a week away from knowing."

"I thought you didn't think they would," Lanie prompts.

"Well, yeah—Velasquez isn't interested, but Granson is, and I think she'll shoot him down within the week."

Castle stares at his daughter, apparently so much more up on the inter-office drama than maybe he ever was.

"A little scary, huh?" Kate whispers.

He laughs and nods as Esposito and Alexis get back into it. Jim shoots him a smile.

"They grow up so fast, don't they?" he wonders aloud.

Castle stares at the man while Kate laughs, her fingers tracing over his on the table top. He glances at her and finds her smiling softly in his direction, eyes wide and full.

They do grow up too fast.

Then again, eighteen years is an awfully long time—an awful lot of growing.

(…)

"What's up with you?" she whispers, her hand trailing across his chest, swirling patterns into the fabric of his shirt.

"Nothing," he dismisses, dragging his fingers up and down her back where she's curled against his side. "Just thinking."

She hums and slides her toe along his calf. He smiles and glances out the window toward the ocean, barely visible in the dim moonlight, overshadowed by rolling clouds. It was a great Thanksgiving, and now they're all in bed, quiet and peaceful. He's just got this roiling thought that won't quit his head, won't leave, won't fade.

But they've talked about this. She doesn't want a shotgun wedding—to be pregnant in her wedding dress. And she needs to be able to go back to the precinct at full capacity, not worrying about a baby, about protecting more than herself, and him. And would she really be ready to suddenly be there without him? Would he?

"Castle," she murmurs.

"Hmm?"

She waits for a moment and then shakes her head. "Never mind."

He sighs and tugs her closer. Seems perhaps they're both keeping things tonight. Not secrets—not bad secrets.

This can't backfire on them.

Then again, he was just keeping her safe, and she was just trying to protect his heart.

"Everything okay?" he asks, and he half wants to pat himself on the back and slap himself for not being able to keep his mouth shut.

"Everything's fine," she breathes out across his shoulder. "Really."

"F'you're sure," he continues and she presses her cheek into his tee shirt.

"I'll tell you mine, you tell me yours," she decides. He groans and she laughs. "Come on, play fair."

"Fine," he grumbles, scrambling quickly for a way to frame his sudden, urgent desire for children in a way that doesn't either guilt her, pressure her, or freak her out.

She takes a few breaths against him and then raises herself up, sliding over his chest so she can look down at him. "My dad caught me after dinner," she begins, her eyes combing over his face. "Cornered me where I was looking through one of Alexis' baby albums that you have here."

He sucks in a breath. Jim Beckett might just be sneakier than he thought. "Uh-huh," he gets out.

"Started talking about grandbabies and how nice it would be to have one this time next year," she says with a little smile.

He laughs and she stares at him. "That man is persistent," he tells her as he rolls them over so he can hold himself above her. "Did the same to me. Well, told me it wouldn't be a shotgun wedding if we planned the baby," he amends.

She opens her mouth a few times before a giggle pops out. "Wow," she says. "I didn't know he was so invested."

He nods and bends to press his lips to hers. "So you're thinking?" he whispers as he pulls away.

"'Bout as much as you are, I think." She reaches up and runs her fingers through his hair. "But."

"But," he sighs, watching her eyes as she toys with the collar of his shirt.

She looks up at him and bites at her lip, sliding her hands along his shoulders. One falls to rest on his arm while the other moves up to cradle his neck. She sighs and wrinkles her eyebrows.

"But it wouldn't be perfect timing," she says after a long pause.

"And you want, we want, perfect timing," he says, as much for his own benefit as hers. He does want perfect timing, opportune timing.

But he also wants to get her pregnant, wants to watch her carry their child, wants to play with a tiny infant next Thanksgiving.

"I—" she breaks off and considers him, that lip back between her teeth. "I'm not—"

"You don't want to be pregnant in your wedding dress," he reminds her.

He doesn't care. Really, honestly, couldn't care less. She'll be stunning in a dress that hugs her delicious curves, that flat stomach. Or, she'll be stunning, in a dress that hugs her delicious curves and the soft flare of her stomach. Either way.

"Wouldn't be that pregnant," she lets out, her eyes widening as she looks up at him.

They stare at each other for a long moment, tipping togtether.

"Five months," he says with some quick math.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "I know the last one was a surprise, but I've still got almost a full month of pills, champ. And it might not happen like that." He stares at her. "So four months, if we were lucky, and probably less," she continues.

"Month runs out—"

"Two days after the Gala," she says with a small smile. "Wasn't going to deal with that on my period, are you crazy?"

He laughs and dips down to pull a kiss from her lips. "Smart woman."

"Practical," she argues as he rises away.

"So, that would mean, what, the last week of December?"

"Probably around Christmas," she says with a little grin.

"Seriously?" he groans, shifting on top of her until her eyes widen and she sucks in a small breath. He grins as she glares up at him.

"Yes," she lets out, dragging her nails down his neck and over that one spot he's fairly certain is just hers—doesn't remember anyone else getting him to shudder just with her fingers on his neck.

"So a baby at Christmas?" he whispers, bending down to press his forehead to hers.

"Trying at Christmas," she amends. "It might not be easy."

"Then we get months of unprotected sex," he says with a little shrug, grinning as she laughs. "It'll be great."

"Yeah, I'm sure it will," she agrees, taking a deep breath that pushes her stomach against his—her still flat, still empty belly. "And you're sure?"

Beyond sure. Beyond secure. Beyond anything he's ever known, he wants this with her.

"If we could, I would get you pregnant right now," he mumbles as he presses his lips to hers.

She laughs into him, bringing her arms up to yank him down to her, tugging his arms out from under him so he crushes her. He tries to move but she doesn't let him, just holds him to her, arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

"You can try," she says against his ear.

He laughs and rears back to find her eyes. "Even though—"

"Hey, you never know," she says with a smile. "If you clap your hands and really belie—"

He silences her with his mouth, freeing a hand to wind it down and tug on her tank top. "I do, I do, I do believe in birth control failure."


	43. Chapter 43

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Oh please. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 43:<strong>

He loses her when Paula drags him away, her hand like a vice in his elbow. Kate gives him a sympathetic smile and turns back to Bob, the two of them entrenched in an interesting conversation about the chain of command in the courts.

It takes him a few minutes to really pay attention to Paula and the reporter she's brought to him—too caught up in the marvel of Kate being friendly with the Mayor after all of that havoc last year. But, pay attention he does, and it's a long thirty minutes of 'thank yous,' and 'she's extraordinaries,' and 'yes, I did have a part in that take down.'

When they finally release him, he spins around, looking for his fiancée, for that flash of red. Her dress is amazing—red and floor length with a high collar and a plunging back. She's a vision with her hair artfully pinned up to her head, curls spilling down in an echo of that date she had all those years ago. He needs to find her.

Finally, he spots her at the bar, back to the crowd and hands curling on the oak in front of her. He walks quickly, giving polite nods to deter anyone from getting in his way. Miraculously, he crosses the room and ends up at her side just as the bar tender hands her a champagne flute.

"What are you drinking, beautiful?" he murmurs in her ear as he glides his palm across her bare back.

She shivers out a laugh and turns to catch his eye. "Ginger ale," she says, her voice sardonic, her eyebrow raised.

He pantomimes an arrow to the heart and then gives her a grin. "Way to shut a man down, Beckett."

She laughs and leans back into his hand to get a better look at his face as he asks the bartender for the same. "You can drink, you know," she tells him softly.

"I'd rather be sober for the speech," he admits. "You okay?"

She nods and reaches out to curl her hand over his on the bar. He rubs circles on her back and gives the bartender a smile when he walks down the bar to give them a little privacy.

"You and Bob have a good talk?" he asks, trying to keep them light. They have speeches to give before dinner. After that, there'll be dancing and the silent auction and all manner of fun things. But this, the waiting, isn't easy.

"Yeah," she says, leaning gently into him. "He wanted to know when we'd be playing poker again."

He laughs and catches her satisfied smile. Ah, he might be a little tense too. She takes a large gulp of ginger ale and closes her eyes.

"Maybe this week?" he suggests, watching as her nostrils flare with controlled breathing. "Quiet night."

"Sure," she manages, and he feels her growing tenser by the second, her back muscles bunching beneath his hand.

"Wanna grab some air?" he suggests softly.

"No time," she gets out. "I'm fine," she insists, but she doesn't open her eyes. "Just some of the most influential people in New York, waiting to hear me speak."

"If it makes you feel any better, most of them will be so gob smacked by how you look that they'll miss any jitters you might have," he tells her.

She lets out a breath and opens her eyes, turning to give him a soft smile as she puts down her glass and smooths her hands over his lapels. "You look pretty great yourself," she says, smiling up at him even as her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.

"You're beautiful," he replies.

She arches up and presses her lips to his in a whisper of a kiss before pulling back to settle herself at his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him.

"Thank you," she murmurs into his suit jacket.

"You're gonna knock 'em dead," he says by way of response just as the hum of a microphone ripples out around the room.

Slowly, she pulls back and gives him a wavering smile. He takes a second to squeeze her to him before stepping back and taking her hand. Together, they wind through the tables and toward the stage at the front of the room, friends and colleagues smiling and waving as they go.

The crowd mills back to their tables, everyone sitting down and looking toward the stage with the band at one side and Paula in the middle, watching their progress. She catches Castle's eye and opens her mouth.

"Welcome to the first annual Write a Better Story benefit and silent auction," she greets the crowd.

Tumultuous applause rise up around them as they reach the side of the stage. Kate's hand is stiff in his and he glances over to see her smiling, looking completely at ease. But the crowd can't see the way her fingers are rigid, can't notice the tension in her forehead, the ramrod straight stature of her back.

He watches her as Paula explains the scholarship, the qualities the applicants must possess, what she hopes will be the overall amount this first year. Everything in his head is Kate; she's all he can see, even though there is a room full of people clamoring for his attention, watching them as they listen to Paula.

"Go," Kate whispers, and he startles, finds Paula giving him a smirk. Shit. Well, okay.

He squeezes Kate's hand and then pulls regretfully away from her, striding up the few steps and across the stage to meet Paula at the mike as she introduces him to the crowd of people, all of whom certainly know who he is.

Then he's alone in the spotlight. And suddenly, he's glad Kate was drinking ginger ale. This isn't a book launch. This isn't a signing. This matters. This is real, and solid, and for her—for the justice she and her father and her mother deserve—to give others the ability to find that justice.

"Good evening, everyone," he begins, clearing his throat as titters run through the crowd. "Thank you all for being here tonight."

He glances over at Kate and finds her watching him, her body tense, but eyes alight, and he finds the calm inside himself to keep going, to recite words he's agonized over for weeks.

"It is my pleasure and my honor to introduce our key note speaker this evening. Some of you might know that I've been following a certain NYPD Homicide Detective around for a few years. There've been books."

The crowd laughs and he grins as Esposito and Ryan roll their eyes, an uncanny mimic of Kate, who's probably doing the same thing off to the side.

"I've spent the last four years of my life entrenched in the justice system, and surrounded by the brave, honorable, and amazing people who fight every day to make our city a safer place. The 12th precinct and the detectives, uniforms, and personnel inside it have taught me the value of true justice. But after—after the evidence, and the solve, the conviction and the paperwork, there are other people, other professionals, to whom we pass our papers—in whom we trust to carry out the justice for which we have fought."

He glances at Kate and sees her hand winding up to rest on her chest, on the ring hidden beneath her dress. He takes a deep breath and turns back to the crowd, catching Jim's eye.

"I have only been so lucky, so fortunate as to know our speaker tonight, because she had a mother who was one of those people. Johanna Beckett worked long, hard, grueling hours to bring justice to our city. She fought for those without a voice—those without the money to have a voice. She, as a civil attorney, worked many cases pro bono, for the good of justice, and redemption, and our city, sacrificing nights at home, sleep, sanity, and time with her beautiful daughter, so that she could uphold the law."

Jim gives him a small smile and he sees his mother reach out to take his hand.

"Tonight we honor her, and the hundreds like her, who dedicate their lives to justice. Tonight, we come together to help a new generation of students, who wish to live a life of sacrifice and honor—who want to make a difference. Your donations will go directly to help students seeking their degrees in Civil Defense. Your donations will go to people who will take the work my colleagues do and help it survive—help it reach its rightful end."

He takes a breath and glances at Kate, who is standing tall now, her eyes focused and ready—her whole body poised.

"And no one can better explain the value of that degree, of that profession, than Detective Katherine Beckett." He pauses for the inevitable applause that paint his fiancé's cheeks lightly pink. "I have known Detective Beckett for over four years now. Four long years, she might tell you." He gets a laugh for that. "And through it all, I have watched in wonder as she strives to find justice and closure for those wronged by the evils of our world. She is as hardworking, dedicated, fierce, and determined as every account I have heard of her mother. She is the legacy Johanna Beckett left behind, and it is only right that she speak to you tonight—to share her extraordinary story."

The crowd thunders, and he extends a hand, waiting as Kate crosses the stage to take it. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present Detective Katherine Beckett."

She squeezes his hand and gives him a beaming smile before gently tugging on him, urging him off the stage. He goes, wanting nothing more than to stay there, tethered to her, but knowing that this, like so many other things, she must do alone.

Kate waits for the crowd to settle, one hand lightly wrapped around the microphone pole. The room settles and she takes a deep breath. Then she stands back, hands relaxed at her sides, and looks out at the crowd.

"Thank you, Castle," she begins, and there's light laughter from the head table, where their friends and family are gathered. Kate smiles. "He's right. It has been a long four years."

He even laughs at that and she shoots him a look, pleased with herself.

"But it has also been a wonderful four years—a trying four years. For me, it has been the end of a journey and a search to find justice for the crimes against my family—for the brutal murder that took my mother and two of her colleagues nearly fourteen years ago. This past summer, we got our answers."

He watches as she meets her father's eyes, sees as Jim raises his glass in her direction, sees the pride in his eyes.

"And the men and women who took our answers and turned them into a trial, turned them into a sentence—to them, I am infinitely grateful. They, like my mother, were unblinded by coercion, by greed, and it is because of their work and ours, that I can say that the city is safe from my mother's killer. I can look my children in the eye someday and tell them that they are safe—that the hole ripped in my world will not be gouged into theirs. They cannot have their grandmother, but they can know that she got the justice she deserved."

She looks to him then and he meets her eyes, choked up and smiling at her, so proud and so in awe of the strength that keeps her going, even when he knows she wants to fall.

"Richard Castle came to me two years ago," she continues, and this time, her smile reaches her eyes. "Barged into my house and told me about this scholarship—about how he wanted to honor my mother. And I remember wanting to hug him, because he had put into words and into action, something I had never been able to put my finger on—the importance of remembrance, a remembrance that moves forward—a remembrance my mother would be proud of. He reminded me that we could move forward, that we could turn something so gruesome, so horrible, into change. He reminded me, as he has done so many other times, that we, together get to write a better story."

He reaches up and brushes at his face, fairly certain that here, in front of all of these people, he might just be crying.

"And tonight, two years later, with her case finally solved, and my right to hug Richard Castle thoroughly intact—" She pauses as the audience laughs, her fingers twitching, catching the light on her diamonds. "Tonight, we remember a woman who strove to find justice and truth in a world that is rarely just or truthful. We remember, and we pledge to help others move her legacy forward. My mother came close to uncovering the conspiracy that killed her—a conspiracy that took another 14 years to uncover. And tonight, we provide the means to help others do the same—to help others rise above and find the answers. Because having the answers, knowing why—"

She meets his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Knowing why matters."

She looks back at the room as the audience applauds. She smiles, a little caught, and nods her head.

"So I want to thank you for coming tonight, to honor my mother, and to help us support her legacy into a new generation. I hope you enjoy your meals and the wonderful, rather astounding items we've collected for tonight's auction. Thank you."

The applause erupt again and she takes a small bow before walking across the stage. Paula comes up behind her quickly, presumably to divert attention from the fact that Kate comes down the stairs and straight into his arms, twining herself around him as he staggers and clutches at her.

But Paula's got them all laughing, and so he gently guides Kate into the small alcove behind the stage. Her face is warm against his neck, and he feels the dampness of tears as she shivers into him, his hands tracing circles over her bare back.

"That was beautiful," he tells her softly, turning to press his lips to the side of her head. "Amazing. You were amazing."

"Thank you," she mouths against his skin. "God," she whispers, pulling back enough to look up at him in the dim light that filters back to them through the curtains. "How do you do this regularly?"

He chuckles and shakes his head, trailing a hand up to splay out between her shoulder blades. "This is different. And that—my—Kate," he manages, a little lost to tell her how eloquent and intelligent and moving she was, she is.

She laughs out a watery sound and arches up the tiny distance to press her lips lightly to his. "My Castle," she replies as she moves away, grinning at him, teasing and honest at once.

She pulls her hands from his back to swipe at her cheeks, but he beats her to it. She smiles, watching his eyes as he gently wipes her cheeks and presses his lips to her forehead.

"You ready?" he asks after a quiet minute.

"I'm starving. Feed me."

He laughs and takes her hand, emerging first, happy to find that everyone is too caught up in their food to give them much mind as they quickly find their seats. Their table, however, is a different story, and he's impressed by how many people actually manage to catch Kate's hand as they make their way around the table to their seats.

She gives all of them a smile, his daughter, his mother, her father, Esposito, Ryan, Lanie, Jenny, Graham. And then she eats. Her father laughs and Castle looks over at him, tickled by the way his fiancée is desperately cutting into her breaded chicken.

"Katie has a post-performance ritual that involves stuffing her face," Jim explains. "It's good to see things haven't changed."

"Eat, Castle," Kate nudges, looking over at him, where he's sitting still, looking around at his family and his friends—as much family as the rest, really.

He gives her a smile and cuts into his own food, astounded by how good it is. Usually these dinners are like rubber, with over cooked vegetables and sad rice. But this—this breaded chicken with amazing sauce, sautéed potatoes and an amazing assortment of winter greens—this is amazing.

"Madison's restaurant offered to cater the event for free a few weeks ago," Kate offers as her hand snakes down to rest on his knee. "Great, right?"

"Why don't we eat there more often?" he wonders, twining his finger with hers.

"We should," she agrees. "Who's the band?" she asks as the swing band on the stage starts playing slow jazz to fill the room with sound while they eat.

"Friend of a friend. They're big in Chicago," he explains. "I'm told they play great weddings too."

"We do not need a swing band," Kate fires back.

"Oh, but that would be fun," Alexis interjects. "Graham took me swing dancing a few weeks ago; it was great."

The man in question blushes, obviously uncomfortable with the attention from the whole table. Castle has to hand it to him; he's a brave kid, accompanying his girlfriend to her father's fiancée's benefit dinner to honor her dead mother.

"It was fun," he agrees, shooting Alexis a look that just makes her smile.

"But it's basically just going to be our table," Kate argues. "And what maybe twenty other people, max?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention that I wanted to invite Black Pawn's entire mailing list?"

Her nails dig into the back of his hand and he laughs, snatching it away from her. "Just because we're at this benefit does not mean I will not hurt you," she tells him while their friends laugh.

"You promise?" he whispers, leaning in to press his lips to her ear.

She swats at him but smiles, taking his hand back as she turns to talk to his daughter, seated on her other side, with her father on his. They were probably meant to sit in each other's chairs.

"Son, that was a wonderful speech you gave," Jim says, breaking Castle out of his moment watching his daughter and his Kate talk.

"Thank you. I—I'm glad it was enough," he tells him.

Jim smiles and glances around him at Kate, who seems to be sparkling now, lit up. "I think it was perfect, both of you."

"Thank you, Jim," he repeats.

"Rick, I think I should be thanking you."

(…)

"Where did you find a boat that big?" Kate wonders as they wander the auction room later in the evening.

The swing band is in full, well, swing, on the dance floor, and while he just wanted to dance with her, she insisted they take the lull and look through the auction. To her credit, the room is mostly empty, everyone called away to dance.

"Bob has a friend," he explains, smiling as she laughs and lilts into him, allowing him to wrap his arm around her shoulders. "See anything you want?"

She snaps her head to meet his eyes over her shoulder. "What?"

"Well, I'd feel bad if I didn't win something—might as well be something we both like."

She stills under his arm, glancing around the room. "I wasn't, uh, expecting this?"

He chuckles and gives her a squeeze. "Should have mentioned it earlier."

"No," she says slowly, reaching up to pat his hand. "No, it's fine. What is there?"

He grins and guides her over to the far side of the room, where the less boat-like items are. She's relaxed under his arm, and he marvels at her quick changes tonight. As they reach the vacation options, she sinks against him, and he figures maybe she's less changeable and more tired than he thought.

"Castle," she sighs. "We just took a vacation."

He laughs and nudges her hip with his own. "We still have a honeymoon."

"A—you want to—really?" she gets out, turning so his arm falls over her back.

"It's for a good cause," he insists.

"Castle that's, that's very sweet," she says slowly, raising a hand to brush his cheek with her knuckles. "What—what is there?"

He grins and leans forward to catch her lips, laughing as she squeaks in surprise.

"Castle," she reprimands, pushing gently on his chest. "Reign it in."

"We're picking our honeymoon spot," he argues, tugging her closer. "Can't I get just a little excited?"

"Not that excited," she says, laughing. "Later," she adds, patting his cheek. "So, what have we got?"

He sighs, pouting dramatically, and she shakes her head, brushing her thumb under his eye, arching her eyebrow. "Well," he says, giving up the act to spin them around so they can see the pictures. "Nice, Positano, oh, wow, and a huge suite in the Caribbean."

"Wow," she lets out. "How did you get these?"

He turns to her, a little surprised, and finds her staring at the picture of Positano, entranced. "People were tripping over themselves to donate to this," he tells her quietly. "People care."

Kate nods and curls her hand into the back of his jacket. "Yeah."

He gives her a minute, watching as she adjusts to the thought. So many people—people he hasn't heard from in years—wanted to donate. She's made a splash, she's beloved to the city. And that, combined with his fame and Paula's reach, gave them an enormous pool to choose from.

"So, Positano?" he prompts after a moment.

She laughs quietly. "It's pretty."

"Gorgeous," he agrees. "And quiet."

"Do you speak any Italian?" she wonders, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"None, you?"

She laughs. "Russian and a little French, when I need it. But no."

"Good, we can learn together," he enthuses.

"Hell no, are you kidding?" she says, laughing as she pulls away from him. "We'll never get anything done that way."

"I resent that." She laughs harder and picks up the pen.

"Positano," she prompts, handing him the pen. "Better do it, or I'll give your whole fortune away."

He chuckles and takes the pen from her, leaning down to see the sheet. The highest bid so far is $8,000, so he puts down $12,000, figuring it's a good $3,000 higher than the highest bid will be.

"Isn't that too much?" she asks quietly.

"Safety net," he says cheekily. Never mind the fact that this should pay for someone's housing for a single semester.

"Uh-huh," she says, not giving him an inch. "Come on, let's go dancing."

He laughs and lets her guide him out onto the dance floor. He watches her face as they dance together, upbeat and laughing as he dips her, joy seeping back into her eyes, into his heart. There's something about the benefit, of the laughter around them; he can see it healing her, can feel it healing him—giving them both an unknown closure.

She lets him twirl her around, her dress fanning out around them as they spin. Her laughter is infectious and they spend a long hour dancing together, switching off with Alexis and Graham every so often.

"It's great, Dad," Alexis tells him as Kate dances with Graham, laughing as she tries to teach him a few more complicated steps.

"I think it's come off well, yeah," he agrees, dipping his daughter, who laughs, looking for a moment like the little girl he danced with at his wedding to Gina—the little girl who danced on his toes. This wedding will be different.

"She's a great speaker," Alexis says after a minute. "You too."

"Thanks, pumpkin. And yeah, she really is." He catches Kate's eye and she smirks at him over Graham's shoulder.

"I'm really glad you guys did this," Alexis adds.

And as he watches Kate nearly trip with Graham, her face weightless and beaming, he has to agree.

(…)

He watches as she takes out her earrings, standing exhaustedly in front of their mirror in the bathroom, her dress flaring out around her bare feet. He leans against the doorway, unbuttoning his shirt as he tosses his tie back toward their bed.

"You look fabulously ruffled," she says, startling him out of his quiet reverie.

"Do I?" he wonders with a grin, knowing she's just playing him up for the hell of it. "You look divine."

She laughs and turns to him as he saunters up to her, reaching out to slide his hand along her waist. She lets him, stepping closer so she can rise up on her toes to find his lips, her hand coming to rest against his neck, her other on his chest.

"I'm exhausted," she murmurs as they break apart.

"Me too," he agrees, bending to rest his forehead to hers.

She smiles and turns in his arms so they're looking at themselves in the mirror. It's a little scary, the two of them all dolled up. They look so married.

"So. Positano," she says after a minute, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Looks gorgeous," he offers as he glides his fingers across her stomach, the satiny fabric soft and smooth beneath his hands.

She smiles, catching his double meaning, and threads her fingers between his. "So we'll just relax for what, was it two weeks?"

"Three, I think," he says. "Too long for work?"

She shakes her head. "We'll make it work. It's our honeymoon; I have sick days banked, and this," she shrugs a little, "didn't dip into those. Leave isn't the same."

"Three weeks of Italian food and ocean and a big, big bed," he says against her ear.

"Bigger than ours?" she asks, her voice dripping with false innocence even as she turns in his arms and resumes his task of unbuttoning his shirt.

"Maybe," he says as he reaches around her for the button at her collar.

She gasps as the dress falls over her front. He watches as goosebumps rise all over her creamy skin and bends his head to leave a trail from her shoulder to her ear as she pushes his shirt from his shoulders. He grins as she forces his undershirt from his pants and then over his head, yanking him back in as soon as he's free.

"M'freezing," she whispers, pulling herself into him.

"Should warm you up, huh?" he mumbles as he pushes the dress down her hips, quickly getting the small zipper just over the perfect curve of her lower back.

She steps clumsily out of the dress as it pools around her feet and crowds him back toward the bedroom, her fingers working at his zipper as he tries to keep them steady. He laughs as they fall onto the bed, the two of them getting his pants down and tossing them off into a corner together. He follows her back toward the pillows as she scoots up, alluring and sexy and soft in just a pair of red-lace panties.

"Socks," she says on a laugh as he rises up above her.

"Don't care," he mumbles into her mouth, grinning as she arches up into him.

"Love you," she gets out as she pulls away from him to flop down onto the pillows. "Really."

He smiles and nods, holding himself up with one hand so he can trail his fingers down her cheek. "I love you too. Really."

She smiles and hooks a leg around his hips, rolling them in a fluid move that leaves him gasping and laughing as she looks down at him. She smirks and runs her fingers through his hair, calm and easy and unhurried.

"So. What else did you want to bid on?" she asks.

He chuckles and sits up, grinning as she squeaks and grabs onto his shoulders until they're settled with her in his lap, her legs wrapped around his hips.

"Just you," he tells her shoulder as he plants his lips there and moves up and over to her pulse.

"S-sap," she manages on a pant.

"I behaved," he argues, pulling back to meet her eyes. "And now, I think we should practice for the honeymoon."

She laughs, loud and free. "Thought we already were."

Then she wraps him in a hug then, surprising him and nearly toppling them backward at the force of it, even with her in his lap. He runs his fingers through her newly freed hair and presses his lips to her temple in question.

"Just exercising my right," she mumbles, and he hears the shyness, the embarrassment there.

Her right—oh, her right to hug him, and more, whenever she wants.

"Sap," he whispers, grinning into her hair as she laughs, the gorgeous sound of it ringing around their room as her engagement ring scrapes over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well," she says as she pulls back. "She'd want me to."

He realizes she's still wearing her necklace as her fingers come to toy with the ring on her chest. "Yeah, she would," he agrees, covering her hand with his. "She'd be so proud of you. I'm sure she is."

Kate meets his eyes and smiles, bringing their hands to her lips. "Of you too, Castle."


	44. Chapter 44

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Can't skip a week if you're actually writing for the show.**

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 44:<strong>

The bed jerks as Kate sits bolt upright. He startles, nearly pushing his laptop off his legs as she gasps in air. He glances over at her and finds her eyes wide, hands clenched protectively over her abdomen. He closes the laptop softly and slides it onto the bedside before turning to her.

"Hey," he says gently.

"Babies," she lets out.

"Uh—sure. Okay." So maybe he should have closed the laptop and gone to sleep when midnight rolled around.

"They took them, then brought them back. More of them. Five. Five babies, Castle." She turns wide, sleep shocked eyes on him. "Five. I had five babies, and they brought back seven."

"Seven," he repeats, dazed.

"Seven! We can't have seven babies!"

"We're not," he assures her, feeling his mouth twitching up as her eyes grow a little clearer. "But seven, really?"

"Well, seven came back, but I gave birth to five. Five, do you have—you cannot get me pregnant with five babies! I can't have quintuplets. I'll fall over. I mean, I'll just, like, topple backward trying to walk around."

He loses the battle and starts laughing as he reaches out to brush through her sleep-frazzled hair. "We're not gonna have quintuplets," he says, thoroughly amused and a little besotted by her utter panic.

She huffs at him. "I know." But she doesn't. She's actually imagining a future with five babies in this apartment.

God, that's a terrifying thought.

"We're not gonna have quints," he repeats, half for himself now. "We'll have one baby, maybe two." Her throat bobs. "But one, probably one. Kate," he presses, waiting until she looks at him again. "You're not pregnant."

"I know!" she snaps, but it comes out as half a laugh. "I was just—I couldn't even look at all of them at once."

He chuckles as she falls forward to burrow her forehead into his neck. He wraps himself around her, nudging her until she settles in the gap between his legs.

"Did you eat something before bed?" he wonders after a few minutes in which they just cuddle together, soft cotton on cotton as the dress shirt she wears scrunches up around his tee shirt.

She shakes her head against him. "Looked at fertility sites, actually," she mumbles.

"Why?" he wonders on a laugh.

She sighs against his neck. "Distraction," she mutters, unusually honest about it.

"Ah."

He's supposed to meet her at Remy's after she goes to see Burke tomorrow, and from there, they'll launch a game plan about the precinct. But that's tomorrow, or, well, later today. Now, she's giggling into his neck, apparently baby crazy and loopy. Man, he's such a goner once he gets her pregnant.

"You should have seen your face. Oh, God, Rick," she laughs, pulling back to look up at him. "Like I'd shot you or something, punched you in the gut."

"Cut a man some slack," he protests, smiling at her. "Seven babies? All those diapers? And what the hell would I do with seven kids when you went back to work?"

Her face falls a little and he internally slaps himself. They don't need to think about that just yet, for their five-seven-one hypothetical kid. They need to get through tomorrow, and meeting with Gates, and wait until Christmas.

"If we had seven children, I'd stay home," she says after a moment, her eyes serious. "I wouldn't—hell, we'd still need a nanny."

"We could have a reality TV show," he suggests, eager to get her back to giggling.

It's good—great—to know that, in the event of massive multiples, she'd stay home. But she won't have to, and he likes them better when they're laughing at two in the morning.

"Ugh." She wrinkles her nose and he leans in to kiss it, smiling as she lets out a small chuckle.

"So, that's a no on inviting five camera people into our home to watch our brood grow up?"

"Definite no," she mumbles as she leans further into him, resting her head against his jaw. "I don't want the world watching when I screw up changing a diaper."

He shakes his head against hers. "You're not gonna screw up."

"Oh, I'm sure, within 18 years, I'll mess up more than once," she argues. "Especially if he's anything like you, I will snap at him, and I'll regret it."

"He'll probably deserve it," he tells her before pressing his lips to her forehead.

He can see it, a little him, with a lot of her, standing at the bottom of the stairs holding a broken vase after chucking a ball down to watch it bounce. And he can see Kate, tired after work, snapping at the little blue-eyed boy, easily irritated and not in the mood for water and shattered ceramic. But he can see the aftermath too, the way the little lip trembles and sad little feet pound back up the stairs. He can see the slump of Kate's shoulders, the quick tread of her feet following after. And as he watches himself clean up the broken shards of porcelain, he can hear their laughter all the way down the stairs.

"You're gonna be a wonderful mother."

She sighs against his neck and pulls back to look at him. "Really mastering these late night pep talks, aren't you?" she asks, her eyes a little shinier than they were a minute ago.

He grins and leans forward to catch her mouth, wrapping her in his arms before pushing them both down to the bed, feet at the pillows, heads at foot.

She laughs against his mouth and then tugs him closer, letting him distract her, distract them both.

(…)

He finds her in their booth at the very back of Remy's the next day, large sweatshirt dwarfing her frame. He thinks it might be his. Her legs are pulled up beneath her on the booth and she holds her head in her hands, bowed over the table.

There's a plate of fries on the table in front of her, but nothing else. Not even coffee.

He slides into the booth, noting her small twitch of acknowledgement. He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head without even looking at him. She drops a hand and pushes the plate toward him.

Ah, so the fries are for him, to eat while he waits her out.

He watches her for a minute, noting the shallow rise and fall of her shoulders. He wants to reach out, take her hand. He wants to slide onto the bench next to her and engulf her in his body, hide her away so she can cry, or whatever it is she needs to do.

Because this—this small, shaking shell of his fiancé—was not what he expected to find. He thought he'd walk in to find Kate grinning, waving him over with plans and excitement.

He stuffs a fry in his mouth to stall any sounds, to stop himself from showing his surprise. They're good, a little cold, but he eats. He pours ketchup. He wipes up the spill as it spurts out of the bottle.

And he waits.

"He said I can go back after the holiday," Kate says softly, and he nearly chokes as he snaps his gaze to her head some fifteen minutes later.

"Christmas," he repeats as he gets the food down. "That's soon."

"Yeah," she agrees, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "Yeah. So I'll go see Gates after New Years."

He gives her a tentative smile. It's good. It's great. It's a few more weeks, but that's just as well; returning in the middle of the Christmas hell would just be painful for everyone, switching things up at their craziest. And this gives them time to have a Christmas together, a real Christmas—maybe the last one they'll get for a while.

"That's great," he says slowly.

She nods and reaches out for a fry, dipping nearly the entire thing in ketchup. He watches, confused and wary as she sits there and eats.

After five minutes of silence, he cracks.

"Kate?" he prompts.

"He says the dreams," she begins, taking a deep breath that wracks her whole frame. "He says the dreams, the panic attacks—they might not go away in two weeks—they might get worse once I go back."

She pauses and eats a few fries, her eyes settled on the table. He waits, suddenly heavy. So she still has dreams. Everyone does. Everyone would after what she's been through. And the panic attacks too—all of it is normal for her, for the life she's led, been forced to lead.

"And if they get worse," she says, raising her eyes to meet his, "it might be best for me to take a desk job for a while, to acclimate."

"Kate—"

She shakes her head. "And it wouldn't be for forever. And it doesn't mean I'll never get there," she supplies easily, like it's been said already once today. "But I'm not going to know, not until I've fired a gun, not until I've been out in a take down."

He opens his mouth but closes it, unsure of what to say. It all sounds good—sounds perfect—sounds like everything will be okay, and she's healing. And yes, there may be bumps in the road ahead, but she's so much better, so much closer to being back to before than she was. She's so much stronger.

"I'm not better," she lets out, stabbing a fry into the ketchup so it splatters out onto the formica table top.

"But you're so close," comes out before he can stop it—can rein in the desire to comfort her, to do something other than watch her crack in front of him.

"Not close enough," she growls, meeting his eyes again. "I don't want to go back and fail, Castle."

"You won't fail," he insists, shifting forward even as her eyes drop from his to where she's nearly spinning her finger raw, twisting her ring around and around. "You had a rough start the last time too," he reminds her.

He doesn't want to watch her freeze in front of a perp again. But he will. And he'll be right behind her, telling her she can do it. They'll get her through it.

"You overcame it then. You can do it now. And if you have to have a desk job for a few weeks, we'll have a bunch of fabulous dinners, get you all pumped, and send you back to your real job with a few pounds to lose on not sleeping."

Her lips twitch and he feels his breath coming back.

"Yeah," she mumbles, taking a fry with less rage than the last.

He spots their normal waitress, Julie, and catches her eye. She smiles and glances at Kate, waiting to approach them until he nods. The red head walks up to their table with a huge grin, and he returns her smile.

"What'll it be today, you two?" she asks, her warm, deep voice ringing around their quiet bubble.

"Two milkshakes," he says before Kate can open her mouth. "Wings, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, and, oh, are you still doing that fried ravioli special?"

Julie gives him an indulgent look while Kate sits up straight, shaking her head at him fondly. "We could be, if you're desperate, Mr. Castle," Julie decides.

"It's a celebratory day, so I'd say we are," he says easily, catching Kate's soft blush out of the corner of his eye.

"Celebrating?" Julie prompts.

He reaches across the booth and raises Kate's left hand in his. "Nearly two months engaged."

Julie laughs and Kate smiles at him, grateful. He nearly scoffs. He wouldn't actually tell someone, 'we're celebrating her clearance for field work after a nasty resurgence of PTSD.' Jeez.

"Alright, well, two milkshakes—chocolate and strawberry—wings, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, and fried ravioli coming up," Julie tells them. "Is he trying to fatten you up, honey? You do look a little thin," she asks Kate.

Kate blinks for a moment then grins over at him. "When isn't he?" she wonders.

Julie laughs and gives her a nod before spinning around to walk toward the kitchen. Kate shakes her head at him and pushes the fries his way, slumping back in her seat, relaxed, finally.

"What?" he asks innocently.

"That's an indecent amount of food."

"We're celebrating," he protests, nudging her food with his until she laughs and kicks him lightly back.

"By getting me fat?" she tosses back.

"The only fat I'm trying to get you is a type of fat you should never call a woman," he argues.

She laughs. "You never call a woman fat, no matter what type of fat, hot shot."

He rolls his eyes and nudges the fries back in her direction. "You are far from any type of fat."

"Doesn't mean I'm far from full," she says, shaking her head. "If you want help eating that gluttonous feast, let me digest."

"You've eaten four fries."

She glares at him and he raises his hands in surrender before reaching out to take a few more fries for himself. She has a point, but really, the fries here are amazing. They're not worth wasting, stomach ache or no.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. He munches while he watches her release it all, watches the stress roll down and off her shoulders. He notes the way her arms smooth out and those little wrinkles between her eyebrows disappear, replaced with something far more Kate and far less innocent.

"What's on your agenda today?" she asks as she watches him eat, all smoky eyes and roaming toes.

His leg twitches against her foot and she smiles. Well, now dragging her back to bed is on his agenda. "I didn't have plans," he tells her.

"Waiting on me all day?" she asks softly, and some of the sultry disappears under the weight of her warm smile.

He nods. Of course he was. "Figured we could have lunch then pal around the city," he says gently. "Maybe grab some decorations for the loft? Alexis will want to start as soon as she gets home."

"Tomorrow, right?" Kate asks, and he sees the smile blooming now, filling her up, lightness expanding from her eyes and down her face, out to her hands.

"Yeah. She's excited."

"Me too," Kate admits. "I—yeah, me too."  
>"Do you have stuff in any of the boxes we put upstairs?" he wonders as he shifts to trap her roaming feet, glaring at her as she laughs at him.<p>

"Maybe," she says after a moment, ankles wriggling between his. "I think Dad might have more. I didn't, ah, take many, you know?"

He nods in understanding. "So we need to buy some of our own then."

"What, like, his and hers ornaments?"

If her eyes weren't sparkling for the first time today, he'd be tempted to think she didn't approve. But she does—oh she likes the idea of them buying things together, for their life together, just as much as he does.

"Ooh, we could get little handcuffs and pens," he says eagerly, really just to hear that lovely 'hah!' she lets out before she giggles.

"How about a gun and a banana peel?" she suggests.

"What's the peel for?"

"Your clumsiness."

He scoffs just as Julie walks up to them, arms laden with an enormous tray. She hands off their milkshakes and then sets down their food, a broad smile on her face.

"Thank you," Kate says.

"It's my pleasure, dear. Enjoy."

They watch her walk away and then instantly reach for the same mozzarella stick. Kate glares at him but he stands his ground. He wants this one. She sneaks a foot away and drags it up his calf, but he's not budging. The most golden, crispy stick in the basket is so his.

But then her toes, socked toes, trail across his ankle and he falters. Damn.

She smirks at him around the mozzarella stick and he pouts for a moment before taking a fry and dunking it in her milkshake.

"Castle!" she exclaims, dragging the drink safely back to her side of the table. "You know how much I hate that."

He shrugs and takes a piece of ravioli, biting into it without thinking. "Ow!"

He opens his mouth, panting for a moment, the cheese inside the delicious coating searing his tongue.

Kate rolls her eyes and pushes his shake toward him with a smirk. He takes it, slurping up a long drag. She watches him as she blows on her own piece of ravioli, raising an eyebrow as he waits for her to take a bite.

When she does, she uses way more tongue than necessary and he gives her a look. She just smiles innocently and runs her toes up his leg.

"So, shopping. We can do that with Alexis tomorrow, can't we?" she says easily.

"Y-yeah," he gets out. "Yes. That sounds like a great idea."

"Good," she agrees. "I think we should celebrate at home."

"You do, huh?"

She grins and wraps both ankles around his calf, tugging until he spreads his legs so she can slide one of her feet up onto his booth, between his thighs. "Uh-huh," she says around a sip of milkshake.

He reaches down and grabs her foot before she can start moving to make him come undone in a booth at Remy's. He squeezes her foot and she groans around her straw. He glares at her.

She just smiles at him and twitches her foot against his hand.

"You're evil."

"Just trying to help you get me full."


	45. Chapter 45

**Title: Good For You**

**Disclaimer: Writers worry about mid-season sweeps, not mid-term exams. **

**Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 45:<strong>

He walks a few paces behind them, watching as his daughter and fiancée talk, heads close together while they all wind their way through Herald Square. Light snow swirls down all around them, and everywhere, people look happy and harried, trying to do their shopping in the last few days before the Holiday.

"Castle," Kate calls out when he nearly passes them where they've stopped at a window display for Macy's.

He doubles back and plants himself at her side, sliding their gloved fingers together. She smiles up at him, wearing flats today and a gorgeous red coat that hangs perfectly over her lovely figure.

Alexis leans around Kate to grin at him and he smiles back at the both of them, wrapped up in the Christmas cheer—in Kate's open, happy smile. The insecurity of the day before—the woman he met in that booth is all but gone now. She's laughing and smiling and wrapping her arm around his kid's shoulders as they chatter about the coats on display and the boots. All the girly things.

"They've got that wonderful ornament area, dad," Alexis prompts. "We should start there."

"Sounds good," Kate agrees.

"Okay. Macy's it is, then," he exclaims, tugging on Kate's hand so they all stumble, laughing.

She shakes her head at him and arches up onto her toes to press her lips to his chilly jaw. He opens his mouth to tell her something, anything—how much he desperately loves her—but Alexis pulls them over to the doors.

Kate squeezes his hand and then he's following them inside, into the cavernous, open first floor. Kate and Alexis stare around, smiles on their faces, pink in their cheeks, and he grins to himself, letting them lead him through. They wind through stands and racks and sales people with perfume.

He watches as heads turn, follow their progress and the girls lead him to the escalators. Just as many eyes seem to track his daughter as his fiancée, and the thought makes him instantly uneasy. He's used to men staring at Kate; he can handle that. He gets to sleep with her. Kind of (usually) stalls the possessive tendencies.

But men ogling his daughter? His little girl, with her hair in a perfect french braid, black pea coat bringing out the cream of her skin, blue eyes sparkling as she and Kate laugh—oh, God, his kid is Beckett, little Beckett—a red headed, shorter, slightly curvier Beckett.

"Castle?" Kate prompts, tugging on his fingers as they step onto the moving staircase.

"Hmm?" he manages.

His fiancée is hot. And that means that men think his daughter is hot. Men are going to hit on her like they hit on Kate, undress her with their eyes, walk up with terrible come ons and try to buy her drinks.

Holy hell.

"Castle," Kate repeats, a little more bite in it this time. "What's up?" she asks as he nearly trips following her off the escalator.

"Nothing," he hedges, watching as Alexis breaks free from Kate to lean over a train display.

A guy walks by and does not make any effort, at all, to hide the fact that he's checking out Alexis' ass.

Kate whacks his arm lightly and Castle breaks his gaze from trying to burn a hole in that guy's head. He looks down at her and finds her looking up at him, all irritation melted from her face.

"It's fine," she whispers, tugging him over to the side of the escalators, across from Alexis. "She's got Graham."

"But—"

"Looking but not touching," she continues, and honestly, she's just not helping.

"They shouldn't be looking at all," he lets out in a harried whisper.

"Have you seen her?" Kate returns, and he glares at her. "She's gorgeous, Castle. Men are going to look at her."

"But she's—she's my—no."

She laughs and pats his chest, reaching up with her other hand to straighten his hair. "She's a woman. A beautiful woman. You'll get over it."

"I will never get over it," he says, but he can hear the defeat in it. He won't. He won't ever get over it. But it's not like it'll ever go away, either.

"Come on," Kate says, her cheeks held firm from trying not to laugh at him more. "Let's get ornaments for the tree."

(…)

"What are you doing?" he mumbles, shuffling out of the office and into the living room. "Come back to bed."

Kate shakes her head from the couch where she's curled up around a mug. "Come sit with me."

"S'four in the morning," he tells her as he, none-the-less, plops down beside her, smiling as she tosses the blanket over his legs as well.

"It's beautiful," she says after a quiet minute.

He rips his gaze from his far-too-awake fiancée and looks over toward the tree. It towers in the corner of the living room, seven feet tall and twinkling with white and colored lights, casting the loft in a soft, multi-colored glow. Their ornaments hang all over—some from Alexis' craft days, some from their trip shopping. There's a gun, and a pair of handcuffs, and Alexis got them two little coffee cups as well. All of them are there on the tree, their family. Little points of light fall all over the carpet around the base, speckling the garish presents beneath the tree.

Kate arranged them all, shaking a few and shooting him smiles as she knelt on the carpet, making sure they looked perfect. She's a picky Christmas perfectionist, and he couldn't be more surprised.

"Yeah, it is," he agrees as he tears his eyes away from their tree and back to meet her smiling ones. "Merry Christmas."

Her eyes light up and she gives him that gleaming-toothed smile, leaning over to snag his lips briefly with hers. "Merry Christmas," she whispers as she pulls back.

They sit quietly for a minute, just watching each other.

"Why are you up?" he wonders as she sips at what he thinks is cocoa.

She shrugs and holds the mug out to him. He watches her as he takes a sip, something chocolaty and spicy sliding down his throat.

"What's this?" he asks as she makes to take it back and he pulls it away. He could finish it.

"Mom's recipe," she says, laughing as they wrestle playfully until she wins back her mug.

"Teach me?"

"You've gotta earn it," she says, smirking as he puts on a pout that gets interrupted by a yawn. "Go back to sleep, Castle," she chides.

"Nu-uh," he says, sagging beside her. "Come with me."

"I'm not tired," she admits, running a hand along his thigh. "But don't let me keep you up. Alexis said you have a pretty hectic day planned."

"We," he corrects. "Have a busy day. Come sleep, please."

"I'll keep you up, tossing around," she argues, taking another drag from her mug. "I just wanna watch the tree."

Her fingers curl up at her chest and he notices for the first time that she's wearing her mother's ring.

"What did you guys do when you were a kid?" he asks softly, sliding his arm along her shoulders to pull her into his side.

He feels her resist for a half a second before giving in and melting into him, her mug pressing against his side as she curls her legs over his.

"Mom and I would wake up early and watch the tree, and then I'd help her make a big breakfast—pancakes or french toast, every year."

"Sounds nice," he murmurs into her temple.

"Yeah," she agrees, leaning forward to place her mug on the floor before settling back against him. "And we'd watch Christmas movies all day. She always took both days off, my dad too."

"What have you done for Christmas…since?" he asks.

She sighs and leans her head into the crook of his shoulder, eyes still trained on the Christmas tree. "Dad and I have dinner. I used to work, but Montgomery started to make me take it off when they could spare me. I went to his house once too, with Dad."

"How was Christmas with the Montgomerys?" he wonders, trying to picture Kate and Jim at that table.

"Strange," she says with a small laugh. "Roy had a whole thing about cutting the ham, and his kids had all these napkin tricks and traded vegetables—something about it being okay as long as all of them got consumed." She pauses and glances up at him. "It was loud."

He laughs. "We're kinda loud too."

"Oh, I know," she replies, patting his chest with a smile. "It's different when you're part of the noise."

"Gonna be louder next year," he adds softly.

"Oh yeah?"

He smiles as she scoots back to look at him. "If you want. If you're not ready—if you want to wait for work to settle out—if you want to wait to get married—if you want to wait years—anything," he says, running a hand over her bare knee.

She reaches up and traces his cheek with her fingers, letting her hand glide down to rest against his neck, curling around him. "I want to try, and if we're lucky, we're lucky. And if we're not, there's a lot of stuff in between to keep us busy."

"While we're getting busy?" he asks, laughing as she wrinkles her nose and whacks at him.

"Our first Christmas together, and you had to go and ruin such a nice moment," she whines, but the smile she's holding back tells another story.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises as she curls back into him, obviously unperturbed by his uncouth humor.

She shakes her head, rubbing her temple against his chin as she snakes an arm around him. "Long as you follow through with the getting busy, I'm good," she admits.

He laughs, the sound ringing out around the quiet loft. "Could start now, get you all tired."

She hums and he feels her lips press quickly against his neck. "Alexis'll be up in a little bit anyway," she says quietly.

"Like, three hours," he protests.

Kate lifts her head and looks at him with a sleepy, seductive smile. "You think it'll take less than that?"

"I'm—" he stutters as her eyes twinkle. "For one round—well, I'm flattered—"

"One? Oh, stud, I'm thinking two or three. Give it our best shot."

He leans down and captures her mouth, hauling her against him until she's fully in his lap and his hands can travel all over her soft cotton-clad body. "Three?" he mumbles against her lips.

"If you're up for it," she replies, breaking away to nip at his jaw.

"I'll show you up for it," he growls before flipping them and pinning her underneath him in the soft glow of the tree, wrapped up in Christmas blankets and the dull light beginning to shine through the windows.

"Castle," Kate sighs as they break apart a few minutes later. "Castle, tonight."

He laughs into her hands as she cups his face between her palms. "Okay," he whispers as she smiles up at him. "Going for the innocence of Christmas. I got it."

"I just don't think Alexis would appreciate her siblings being conceived on this couch."

He laughs and settles down along her side, squishing around to get between her body and the back of the couch. She yawns and cuddles into him until they're spooning together, facing the tree.

"Can we make this a tradition?" he murmurs into her ear half an hour later, when they're both hovering just on the edge of sleep.

"An almost-ravishing before presents?" she mumbles back.

"Yeah."

"Oh, definitely," she sighs out.

He grins as he feels her drift off in his arms.

Best Christmas ever, and it's only 5am.

(…)

Seven hours later, the loft bursts with sound.

Alexis and his mother giggle over coffee at the counter, while Ryan and Esposito talk with Jim by the tree. Lanie, Jenny, and Kate sit on the couch, a plate of cookies on the table in front of them.

The boys and their respective women stopped by for lunch before heading off to split time with their more biological families. But as Castle looks around the room, he figures biology has little to do with it, not when everyone is so happy, so united. Not when they are their own little family.

"Rick," Kate calls out, startling him out of his reverie, leaning against the door to his office, bags in his hands for the boys.

He stumbles forward, mock-glaring as the women laugh at him, smiles on their faces and green, red, and white sweaters on their bodies.

"Javi, Kevin," he calls out.

The boys trot over, Jim, Alexis, and Martha following in their wake. Everyone piles onto the furniture, creating a mini audience that could as easily bode well or turn on him.

"These are for the four of you," he explains, handing the bags over to the two couples on either side of his fiancée.

Ryan and Espo eagerly rip into the bags while Lanie and Jenny try to help along, getting more tissue paper than anything. Kate laughs as twin exclamations of joy burst out of her partner's mouths.

"These were sold out," Espo tells him, holding up his copy of _Call of Duty: Black Ops II_. Ryan joins him in awe while Lanie and Jenny shoot him twin grins.

"Thank you, Rick," Jenny says happily.

He smiles at her and then at Lanie, who mouths the same. "While the three of us hole up here one day to defeat that game, the ladies will be taking a day to pamper themselves," he explains as both of the guys lean over to see what the girls got. "You included," he adds as Kate meets his eyes.

She shakes her head but smiles at him before turning to Lanie and Jenny, who are eagerly discussing their plans, dates and times floating through the air. Castle watches them, and laughs at the way Javi and Kevin talk over their three heads, pointing to things on their game boxes.

Alexis walks around the couch and over to his side while his mother and Jim talk quietly by one of the armchairs.

"Hey," he says quietly as Alexis reaches him.

"Hey," she replies, smiling. "Good Christmas."

He nods, considering her, all grown up and beautiful and an adult. "I hope this is okay," he says after a moment. "I know it's not what we usually do—"

"It's perfect," she says, interrupting him with a grin. "It's great. And you know," she spins around and looks out at the group. "It's nice to see the place full. Don't get me wrong," she adds, turning back to look at him. "I loved every Christmas we've had, when it was just us, or just us and Gram—every one."

"I know," he interjects softly. "I know you did."

"But this," she gestures to the room, "this is what it should be, you know? We got our morning, and now there's family, a big family."

He pulls her into a hug, pressing his lips to the crown of her head as she burrows into him, just like she used to when he could up her on his shoulders and make her the tallest person in the room. But now she's all grown, a woman attracting men, and sassing him, and growing up to be so very amazing. And he wishes—wishes for things he can't change.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you this before," he tells her temple.

She shakes her head against him. "This is perfect," she whispers, pulling back. "I got my time with just you, and now I'm old enough to share."

He grins and yanks her back in, smiling at Kate over her head. His fiancée watches them, totally lost to whatever Lanie's trying to say to her. Her fingers toy at her wrist, spinning the bracelet he gave her this morning—silver strands woven together, strong and fierce and supple, just like her.

"Just, promise, when there are little guys running around, I can still have the gingerbread spoon?" Alexis mumbles into his collar.

He laughs and pulls back to find her grinning, her eyes shining and bright. But he can see it—that reality, the spark of a little truth behind her eyes.

"Of course," he promises. "And hey, the gingerbread spoon is for my ginger," he adds, watching as she laughs.

"What if they're gingers?" she wonders, laughing at him as he looks from her to Kate.

"By the time they're old enough for the spoon, how about we get you gingerbread schnapps?"

Alexis laughs, her whole body shaking. She spins around and meets Kate's eyes as his fiancée approaches them. "Dad just promised me booze in replacement for the gingerbread spoon when your kids inevitably steal it."

Kate laughs and slings her arm over Alexis' shoulder. "Solid parenting," she tells him. "The gang's about to leave."

"And just FYI, I don't like gingerbread schnapps. I prefer peppermint," Alexis says before she darts out from beneath Kate's arm and goes to hug Lanie goodbye.

"I—" he starts, looking after Alexis.

"Come on," Kate says, laughing as she hooks her fingers into his belt loop and tugs him toward the crowd at the door. "I'll teach her to do shots, don't worry about it."

He stills to a halt and she laughs, crashing back with him. "Solid parenting," he grumbles as she gets him moving again.

(…)

"You know, for four people, we're messy," Kate says as she walks around the living room, picking up bowls and glasses.

"But we're fun," he tells her as he grabs the last of their dishware and follows her back to the sink, setting the bowls into the dishwasher even as she reaches for the sponge. "Come on, let the machine to it, just this once. A little Christmas Magic."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. But she hands him the dishes and lets him turn the appliance on. "That's a little heavy for a dishwasher. Magic?"

"I'll show you magic," he grunts as he hauls her into his chest, laughing against her lips as she squeaks.

She steps back after a long minute, her lips red, hair a little the worse for wear, white sweater slightly askew. "Come on," she says softly, taking his hand to guide him back to their room.

Her knuckles knock between his, her hand stretched wide to accommodate his larger one. He smiles as she tugs him into the room, letting the door shut heavily behind them.

He backs her up to the bed, fingers nudging under the hem of her sweater to splay wide on her soft, warm hips. Her hands tangle in his hair and she stumbles as her legs hit the bed.

"You sure?" she whispers, pulling back and arching onto her toes to press her forehead to his. "No goin' back after this."

"There was no going back after our first case," he says, his breath hot between their mouths. "I'm in, Kate. You sure?"

She smiles and bumps her nose into his, squeezing her hands against the back of his head. "I'm sure, Castle," she whispers.

He smiles and tugs her into his chest, squeezing her against him and laughing as she hums into his neck, her arms gliding to press against his shoulders. Slowly, she pulls away from him and drags him gently down to the bed, smiling as she scoots along the comforter, beckoning to him with her fingers.

He follows her and wraps his arms around her, rolling them until he can look down at her, her hair splayed on their pillows, her face flushed and bright, her eyes shining, so ready to jump into this adventure with him.

"I love you," he says as her hands run up and down his forearms.

She smiles at him, her eyes crinkling with it, and leans up to snag his lips before she lets herself fall back to the pillows. "I love you too," she says softly. "You ready?"

"To do this with you? Always."

She reaches up and pulls him down to her lips, her palms soft and warm and solid on his cheeks. Her ring rasps lightly against his shallow stubble and he smiles into the kiss. She breaks away to meet his eyes and he sees her staring back at him, everything there in her eyes.

"It'll be great," she whispers.

"Yeah, it will."


End file.
